Diary of a Naive Woman (aged 39 and three quarters)

Monday 11th November 2007

"Between Clenched Teeth"

Today was the first rehearsal of Regina Clench's pantomime, "Ali-Berba and the 40 Ladroes." I'm playing "Zorro," Gez is "Evil Baron Hard-On," (oops..I mean "hard-up") and Clarry is "Widow Twanker."

We all met up in the church hall. Regina was in a foul mood. It seems Mr. Branson has refused to back this year's production. He told her he's already throwing money at one lost cause and has no intention of backing another. I can understand why she's upset. I'll get Gez on the case! He seems to have a way with rich old Mr. B!

The "Miss Saigon" helicopter scene has been axed. Regina tells me its not feasible now as Mr. Branson has "pulled out." It appears he won't be lending his helicopter and as Ms. Clench says, "Papier Mache ain't gonna cut the mustard."

Clarry is ever so keen, bless him, it was only the first rehearsal but he insisted on turning up in "full drag." Regina wants us to work on characters. She feels "Zorro" is quite the narcissist. This is a real acting challenge for me because I'm not like that at all! Damn just broke a nail! Gez has been told, to be the evil baron, he can just play himself, so as usual, "Gez is getting off lightly!" Heather Milly-Macca was there. She hasn't got a part of course, she's only prompt call which will be very useful should any of us get 'stumped'.

At noon, we broke for coffee. Regina was hovering at the kitchen fire exit, smoking a cigar with her production assistant, "Virginia Creeper." Regina and Virginia are good chums, actually I think they live together.

The church hall kitchenette is a filthy disgusting hole! I'm a fastidiously clean woman, as everyone knows! There was dirty crockery everywhere, one mug even had what can only be described as green furry mould growing on it! I said to Regina, "If you think I'm drinking from the fur cup, you've got another thing coming!" She splattered her coffee everywhere! Virgina was laughing too, so much so she was bent double, banging the floor with her open palm. I don't know what they found so amusing. Regina, after all, isn't known for her sense of humour.

We broke at 2 p.m. which just about gave me time to nip into the salon for a "just in case" tan and bikini trim. I'm not totally sure but I think we might be going back to Portugal anytime soon. I heard Gez whispering to Clarry this morning. In fact, I heard Clarry say, "If you are going to Portugal, I'd better do a full "white wash." I must make sure he puts my best sarong in!


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In the absence of Fact : Read Fiction.

The Diary of a Naive Woman (aged 39 & 3/4) is a work of fiction. However 1 of the characters is real. I'll never tell!

Wednesday 13th November 2007
"Life as a Pantomime"

Ebay sales = £1440
Boob job fund = £3260

Gez had just left for work when Mr longshaft slyly slipped one in for me, and here was me thinking all the postmen had gone on strike! It was an invitation from my old celeb friend, Fiona P at 'Genetically Modified TV'. The 'saff cow' has only gone and launched her own brand of women's fragrance "Sic 'Eau' Fantic". Don't get me wrong, I like Fiona, I'm just not sure I want to go around whiffing like her!

It did get me thinking about making a bit of easy cashola myself. My ebay 'online shop' has been doing so badly lately. It looks like I'll have to send Clarry down the 'car boot sale' this Sunday to flog off my surplus stock of T-shirts. I wont go myself of course, in my opinion, sniffing round dirty 'car boots' is the activity of dogs!

Clarry asked to borrow my lippy (don't ask?) so while I was having a rummage through my clutch bag I came across my pad of GP Sick certificates. It was then I hit upon the fab idea of selling them, pre-signed, on ebay. You can order a certificate for 1 week off work with irritable bowl syndrome (£40) all the way up to the top end of the range; six months off with spondylitis (£250). Well, they are selling like hot cakes, I can tell you! I can't keep up with demand and my pay pal account is filling up faster than a workhouse privy. My aim of course is to have my new boobs in place by Christmas. Gez is going to have more than 'double doors' to open on his advent calender, hopefully he'll be getting some double D's too.

I'd just dispatched my ebay orders when I heard Clarry twittering to himself in the garden. There he was pegging out the washing dressed as a pantomime dame! He kept saying "They're Innocent........oh yes they are!....OH YES THEY ARE!!!!". He was obviously practising the scene from 'Ali Berber' where Gez and I are carted off by the comedy policeman amidst the boos and hisses of a baying crowd. "Oh no they're not!" the audience will be shouting!. It's going to be such fun.

I told Clarry not to take it so seriously. "It's just our little pantomime" to which he replied, "It might be your liitle pantomime deary, but I've made it my life!"

Isn't Clarry a sodding Drama Queen.

OH YES HE IS.....

OH YES HE IS....
_________________
In the absence of Fact : Read Fiction.

The Diary of a Naive Woman (aged 39 & 3/4) is a work of fiction. However 1 of the characters is real. I'll never tell!

Friday 16th November 2007
‘Sycophantic’

Today, Gez and I went to the London Savoy to attend Fiona P’s lavish party and international press launch for her exclusive perfume, ‘Sic-Eau-Fantic’. I was feeling very much the ‘wasps knees’ entering the reception hall wearing my best Donna Karen ‘knock off’. Fiona greeted me as she handed out complimentary samples of her bottled stench. I didn’t even bother trying mine, the place already stank like a Parisian whorehouse, not that I’ve ever visited a Parisian whorehouse, only Dutch ones!

Fiona was really, ‘lording it’ amongst her assembled glitterati crowd of ‘C’ list celebs. There were at least some faces I recognised, unlike the ‘wannabe’ TV morons I've seen shacked up in the Australian jungle. Lorraine and Vanessa were hoovering up the buffet as if anticipating the re-introduction of war rationing. Carol Vorderman was handing out consolidation loans applications (apparently she gets £1.25 for each successful applicant), and no big surprise to see Christopher Biggins dabbing perfume on his wrists. I’m told he’ll turn up to the opening of an envelope.

Gez wasted no time in spotting a rich Masonic celeb, he was over like a shot. It wasn’t long before I saw Des Lineham take out his cheque book and ask to borrow Gez’s fountain tip.

I’d just necked my third glass of ‘champers’ when some scrawny hack slid over, notebook in hand. She asked if I’d seen ‘Titanic’? Of course I’ve seen it, I love Leonardo De Caprio. She wanted to know if Gez was considering legal action against its owner. I laughed; since the boat went down in 1912 I said it might be a bit late now. She scowled, turned cheap heel and sashayed in the direction of Davina Mccall.

Then, who would pat me on the shoulder, but my old med school friend, Sally Swallows. Since leaving Kirkby Lonsdale she’s become a leading throat specialist. I’ll say! She had her moments back then! Mind you, she’s come a long way since getting married; her maiden name was ‘Spitz’.

Sally has certainly taught me a thing or two. It was Sally who, in our college days, thankfully showed me the correct head position for comfortably sliding a long, rigid instrument down the throat, and so telling the story of how, little me, eventually passed her ‘endoscopy’ exam.

We'd just finished munching our ‘pork & pickle fancies’ when a fight broke out. Trisha was giving Jezza Kyle a good old fashioned ‘happy slapping’, the scrap action being cheered on by a very drunk Amy Wine-lodge. Trisha wrestled Jeremy to the ground and smash, a whole table of Fiona’s perfume on the floor! Amy Winelodge was on her knees quicker than a nun at the Vatican alter rail, sucking the heady liquid from the soaking carpet. I suspect Amy had already been drinking Fiona’s perfume as I had noticed her lavender burps in the buffet queue.

It took four burly waiters to restrain and gag Trisha, thus allowing Fiona to begin her presentation. My goodness, I’ve heard her spout some saccharin drivel in my time, but today she really sucked the jam from the sugary donut. She thanked her showbiz cronies for their kind support and regaled her admiring crowd with the inspiration for her creation, “a subtle perfume with its delicate aroma”. SUBTLE! This stuff would repel a tom cat on heat! She went on to say that no lab rats were harmed (shame!!!!). Perhaps it should have been tested; Christopher Biggins wasn’t the only celebrity breaking out in hives.

Gez and I watched as a ‘rash reddened’ hoard of itching celebs began sharpening their cat claws. Fiona looked terrified as the room filled with another delicate, but subtle aroma…….…..her fear!
_________________
In the absence of Fact : Read Fiction.

The Diary of a Naive Woman (aged 39 & 3/4) is a work of fiction. However 1 of the characters is real. I'll never tell!

Tuesday 20th November 2007
“A Quarter of Cherry Lips”

Oh what fresh crimson hell! Today I went to the ‘Well Woman Clinic’ for my cervical screening with gynaecologist, Dr Myfanwi Hertz. She got straight to the point, asking if my ‘wee’ burned. I said I had no idea as I’m not in the habit of squatting over a barbeque to check its flammability. Then she asked if I had a regular cycle? I told her I enjoyed getting out and about on my mountain bike if the weather’s not too windy. She held her case notes up to cover her face, I think she was hiding a coughing fit because I could see her shoulders heaving.

“Let’s have a little look then” she piped. Unceremoniously I was ushered into the stirrups where I lay, very much a slave to her jollity. “Ahhh Myfanwi” I screamed in pain. “That’ll be Hertz to you my dear” she replied. She wasn’t wrong! “Just try and relax”, her voice echoing through my nether regions. Relax! I defy anyone to relax while Dr Myfanwi Hertz is stripping the very wallpaper from your sugar walls!

It’s a good job it is only once a year!

Feeling sore, I made my way home, popping into Horncock’s Newsagents on the way. It’s been a few weeks since Mr Horncock’s firework fiasco. Luckily he wasn’t in the shop so I had a chat with his wife, Bitsy. I do feel a little responsible for Mr Horncock’s roasting and was a little worried he’d harbour hard feelings towards me. It was very much Bitsy's bitter contention that he’s not been able to manage anything resembling a 'hard feeling' since the power strikes of 1973. I wished her well and requested a quarter of wine gums. Unfortunately she’d sold the last of the wine gums but did offer me some ‘cherry lips’ to suck on. Given my morning at the clinic I told her I'd had all the ‘cherry lips’ I could handle in one day.

It's been an awful day all round, I’ve done the silliest of things, sending Clarry off to the ‘Paul Burrell’s School of Servitude’ for his 'Butler training' in the same week that Gez has gone to Geneva with Esther. Urgent deposit and withdrawals I shouldn’t wonder. I imagine they are both hard at it right now!

It was actually Gez who insisted Clarry attend ‘Butler School’. He’s been envious since we attended Mr Branson’s ‘Halloween Swingers Party’ where he spotted Mr B’s ‘man servant’ hard at it. Ever since then he’s felt quite inadequate, feeling shamed by the limpness of his own male member (of staff I mean).

So Clarry’s been kicked off to butler boot camp. Let us hope Paul Burrell will give Clarry a good hard shove up the backside. That'll make a man of him. I did call Clarry to ask where he’d left the kids instruction manual, but apparently Paul was busy giving him a ‘one on one’ demonstration on how best to deal with the tradesman entrance.

By the time I got the kids home from the crèche, the little saps were screaming their heads off and I’m clueless about this sort of thing. Luckily I remembered Regina Clench telling me her best friend, Virginia Creeper, ran the local nursery. I phoned to asked her what I should be doing with my little saps. She said this time of year it was important to keep them warm. If I couldn’t keep them in the house I should at least be putting them in the greenhouse. What kind of nursery is the blasted woman running?

Still lost, I called Jane in Exeter, She’s wonderful with children, so imaginative, making up the most amazing stories ever told. Thankfully she’ll be here in the morning. When it came to settling the kids down it was all I could do to raid the medicine cupboard. They went out like a light, bless em!

With the house to myself I’m using the time productively. I’ve given up on Portuguese, now I’m learning German. Heather Milly-Macca, had suggested I invite Hans Beaver-Lichen to help me with some oral. She told me, not only did Han’s give her the best ‘Hock’ of her life; he’s a cunning linguist as well.

I asked Heather how I might repay him. She said he would be happy with “ein gutter harter knall”, which I presume is ‘a good hearty meal’. I’m only hoping he won’t mind doing it in the kitchen so I can spit roast his pork while he takes me in his German mouth.

There goes the door bell.

Nacht-ty-Nacht.

3 Days of German lessons

Thursday 22nd November 2007
“Taking the bit between my teeth”

Hans’ German lessons are utterly exhausting, my jaw still aches. At this rate, it won’t be long before I’m a fully fledged German bi-lingual.

After enjoying a hearty spit roast, Hans and I made ourselves comfortable in the lounge. He started me off with simple phrases, suggesting as a warm up, something shorter would be less of a mouthful. It wasn’t ‘too hard’ and once I was on top of it I could feel it growing (my confidence that is). Han’s seemed pretty impressed with my progress too. He could sense how eager I was to learn so began challenging me with something meatier, something I could really roll my tongue around.

Taking the bit between my teeth I tried, but what he was suggesting was much harder with considerably more length to it. “You’re pushing it too far” I protested, too hard, too long! I couldn’t take it all in. Patiently he suggested we rest before having another go. The breather did me good and I was able to take a lot more in on the second time attempt.

Han’s has so much stamina, his lessons are very intense. I can see why Heather Milly-Macca was so impressed; she said he had her yodelling at one stage. I can’t wait for that!

Friday 23rd November 2007
Feeling Fruity

Hans phoned me first thing to ask if I could fit in a lesson. He’d got a couple of hours spare so wanted to know if I was up for a ‘quickie’. I told him I’d be busy this afternoon but if he could come before noon I’d slip him in. He was over like a shot. These Germans! I’d only just finished digesting my full English when he arrived, so you might say I was having one sausage after another.

Han’s arrived carrying, of all things, a blindfold and a bowl of fruit? He said he knew a fun game to help me remember the German words for fruit.

Blindfolding me, he carefully placed a piece of fruit in my hand.

Something round...“Eine Apfel?” I guessed. “Ja! Apple” Hans confirmed.
Mmm?, Large and round…”Einer Pampelmuse?” I giggled. “Ja! A grapefruit”.
Something fuzzy, a peach maybe? “Ein Pfirsich?”, “Ja, gut!”

What fun! The game went on.

Something small and round, must be a grape. “Eine Traube?”.
“Ahh nien! Eine Kirche” Hans said as he gently placed the soft squishy fruit between my lips. Indeed it was a ripe and juicy cherry.

Next, Hans placed my fingers round something long and hard. Too easy! “Eine Banane!” I exclaimed, to which Hans groaned “OH Ja! Ja! Sehr gut!”

The lesson over Hans removed my blindfold as I squinted in the bright morning light. He must have eaten the banana because it was nowhere to be seen amongst the fruit in the bowl. Thinking back I can’t remember seeing any bananas before the lesson either. How odd?

Hans said he’d be back for another lesson tomorrow.

Monday 26th November
‘Deutsch Culture’

I’m really quite cross with Hans. This morning he cut my German lesson short by a good forty minutes.

No sooner had he come, he’d gone!

He said he was in a hurry because he’d promised to give Heather Milly-Macca a lesson too, apparently she had a very tight slot which he was in anxious to fill. He also added, with two of us demanding his attention, he was struggling to ‘keep it up’.

Hans, the cheeky sod, said Heathers oral technique was far more advanced than mine and if he could “do us together”, Heather might teach me a thing or two. I said I’d think about it.

Before he left I was advised; to learn German properly, I should immerse myself in Deutsch culture by watching some German Cinema. From his bag he produced a DVD entitled ‘Schwarzer Wald Erotica’ telling me it was a traditional folk tale about two young German ‘damen’ who lived a simple peasant life in the ‘Black Forest’.

After he’d had gone I settled down to watch the film.

It was my mother who told Churchill liberated Europe from the Germans. I must say, judging by the goings on in ‘Scwarzer Ward Erotica’, German’s are a far more liberated race than we shall ever be. It must be very hot in the ‘Black Forest’ because the main characters, Heidi and Gretel, barely wore any clothing at all. No sooner was the sun out; they were stripping off their lederhosen and skipping merrily through the pine forest.

It’s the strangest film I’ve ever seen. I watched intrigued;

Heidi and Gretel were out doing a bit of nude sunbathing in a brackeny nook when along came a man who they called a ‘Holzfaller’. Funnily enough Hans had already told me the word for wood; ‘holz’ and I deduced that ‘faller’ was to fall, so cleverly I figured that a Holzfaller was a wood cutter. This was confirmed later in the film when he took out his huge chopper.

The hunky lumberjack introduced himself to the naked duo as Heimlich. He must have been selling his firewood because he looked at Heidi and Gretel, saying in his gruff German tones “Ich Habe Holz”, I’ve got wood!

Suddenly Heimlich looked troubled as a pained expression came across his face. I was concerned he might be injured because he started rubbing his groin to demonstrate where he was hurt.

Gretel, sensing the urgency of the situation immediately took charge, laying him on the forest floor and removing his jeans to check for injury. Heidi, who was obviously medically trained, removed his shirt and massaged his chest, clearly examining for evidence of internal bleeding.

Judging by the moans and groans coming from Heimlich, he was in severe pain. At one point I think he suffered a cardiac arrest because Heidi started giving him mouth to mouth resuscitation while Gretel assisted with pulmonary heart massage. Frantically, Gretel straddled his chest, bumping up and down in a vane attempt to start his heart beating. It worked! He jolted upright causing Gretel to lose her balance.

Quickly they ran into their log cabin. They may have got Heimlich out of the forest, but he was far from ‘out of the woods’. Dripping with sweat he was, his high fever really taking hold.

Luckily, Heidi successfully diagnosed the problem which caused Heimlich to feel such pain, and might I add, some visible swellingin his groin! Heimlich had obviously been bitten by one of the many poisonous snakes who live within the prickly forest undergrowth. Taking it in turns, they both worked hard to suck the deadly venom from poor Heimlich who was still writhing in pain. Finally Gretel managed to extract the poison, quickly spitting the venom from her mouth onto the cabin floor.

All happy to be alive, they ran out into the forest, laughing and skipping before jumping into a deep blue, icy mountain lake.

The credits rolled………. FANTASTIC!

I had no idea German medical dramas could be so good. Hans was right; I think it will help my oral. Now where’s the rewind button, I’m just going to watch it over again.

Friday 30th November
‘Lady Garden’

I’ve barely seen Gez since I showed him ‘Schwarzer Ward Erotica’. He must have watched it ten times already! Yesterday, he even dashed into town for some blank computer disks, spending most of the afternoon burning off copies to give to his lodge mates.

I’m not too bothered; at least it keeps him out of my hair. Mmm, talking of hair must get my roots done. But not today, there are other things to be done.

A woman’s home might be her pride, but a ‘ladies garden’ remains her pleasure. Mine is looking quite unkempt, I’ve really been neglecting it lately; I’ve hardly had time to get any gardening done at all. The garden took its revenge though, I broke a nail. Damn telephone keypad! Chipped right off while dialling the number of my landscape gardener, Percy Chucker.

Doddering Percy isn’t the sprightliest flower in the in the blossomy patch, but he’s cheap and gets the job done with minimal fuss. Percy’s a ‘twitcher’, no I don’t mean a nervous twitcher, I mean he’s an avid bird watcher. Only has to glance at a pair of ‘great tits’ and his mind goes completely off the job. Bit like most men really.

Funnily enough, I don’t seem to get too many birds visiting my garden, these days I’m lucky if I get the odd ‘swallow’ on a purple ‘morning glory’. According to Percy, my garden isn’t best suited to birdlife, he says the morning glory flowers are more attractive to bee’s than to birds.

Percy also voiced concern about the state of my overgrown ‘under bush’. He’s advised me to keep my ‘fir’ nice and trim, otherwise come springtime; I’ll be having all nature of problems with ‘thrush’ which, in turn, would do my trailing lobelia no favours whatsoever.

Overhearing our conversation, Clarry started giggling to himself as he pegged out my sports bra’s. Silly man!

Percy Chucker set to with his garden shears, pruning my privet into some very interesting and imaginative shapes. I asked him if he could fashion me a peacock, but apparently I haven’t got the depth of bush to accommodate a fully grown cock. He did say there might just be enough room to squeeze in four fingers and a thumb, so he’s doing a topiary hand instead. He said it's been a long while since he did a 'hand job' in a ladies garden, but he'd give it try. I told him to take his time, a good hand job, after all, should never be rushed.

I went inside to have a quick flick through ‘Hello’ magazine with its three page spread on Fiona P’s perfume press launch. Awful! Two vile shots of Fiona sobbing and snotting into her handkerchief. One of Loraine and Vanessa shovelling sausage rolls into each others greedy gobs and a full colour montage of various rash burned celebrities looking very much the victims of a Napalm attack. Fiona’s now facing financial ruin due to the thirty two individual law suits slapped on her, shouldn’t laugh. I even spotted 'little me' nestled amongst the glitterati; there I was, just in the background of Christopher Biggins. I looked fabulous, head tossed back, laughing hysterically at all the chaos.

‘Celeb Gossip’ Section, There were some nice pictures of a very droopy eyed Amy Wine-lodge for the announcement of her engagement to Buck Broncho. According to the article they plan to marry in Vegas just as soon as Amy gets the all clear from rehab. That will be a while yet I shouldn’t wonder.

I was disturbed by the sounds of Percy’s high pitched cursing. Turned the air blue he did! What a balls up he’d made!

Percy had only gone and got a bit slack happy with his pruning shears, accidentally lopping off three fingers. No, not from his own withered hand, that wouldn’t have bothered me at all. I mean the fingers on the damn topiary bush hand which was supposed to be my new garden centrepiece. Stupid old sod!

All that was left for his effort was a closed palm with one extended finger. The middle index finger I might add! Bloody hell, I asked him for a peacock and he’s given me ‘the bird’. I shouldn’t have got so upset because when Gez returned home he was absolutely truly delighted, said it was a just the sort of statement he wanted to make to the outside world.

We all settled down to our evening meal. Clarry had already fed, bathed and storied the kids so they were just where I like them, tucked up in bed, out of my way.

After dinner I snuggled up on the sofa watching the soaps. Gez got busy in his study, trawling the internet; he’s looking for an import copy of ‘Schwarzer Ward Erotica II’. Clarry busied himself with knitting needles. Sitting crossed legs on my antique leather ‘bonquette’ he hummed showtunes while knitting Sukdeep a pink and beige woollen winter scarf, (The Paul Burrell School fee was money on the fire, obviously!).

Turning up the gas ‘real coal effect’ a notch, I dimmed the lights, supped my whiskey sours and settled for a night in with Jonathan Ross. All was peaceful in the world………….

And the door bell rang!

“Who the ding-dong merrily on f**king high is that!” cursed Clarry as he dropped a stitch. He threw his knitting onto the ‘chamois pouf’ and marched affectedly towards the door. We weren't expecting house guests.

In she waddled, old bagpipes herself, tartan carpet bags clutched in podgy hands. Aunty ‘Flaming’ Philomena!

“Surprise wee hens, I’m back!!!!!” She yelled.

……and my world was peaceful no more!
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Diary of a 39 year old woman is a work of fiction, honest, its not real you know, pure fantasy, well maybe one character is real!

Saturday 1st December - 1st Day of Advent
‘A Man-kini for Clarry’

Advent Calendar Door No1: Tinselly Balls

No, It wasn’t a bad dream, more a waking nightmare, Aunty Philly arriving late last night having escaped ‘Rick Waller’s’ Fat camp, she'd enrolled but was not able to cope with the ‘Rivita Regimen’. In the dead of night she liberated herself from camp by chewing her way through the barbed wire security fence.

Despite arriving with two large carpet bags, she had no clothes other than her mud splattered velour leisure suit. So what was in her heaving carpets bags if not her clothes. I’ll tell you what……CRISPS!

Nestled among her stash of cheese & onion she dug out a ‘wee’ gift for me. ‘Hibernian Hunk’s Saucy Tartan Advent Calendar’. Clarry was a little jealous, but I did say I’d let him open some of the doors.

Accommodating Philly in our plans to do a bit of Christmas shopping, we set off for Leicester city centre. It was all Clarry and I could do to squeeze her into the boot of the ‘Megane’. Aunty Phil did lose 3 ounces during her stay at Rick’s and wasn’t sure how she would be able to resist the temptation of Leicester’s many fast food outlets. “Not to worry” said Clarry, “out of sight, out of mind”, as he fitted her with my dead pony’s leather blinkers. Can't think what they were doing in Clarry's possession? Taking the additional precaution of restricting her sense of smell. Clarry also provided Philly with a pair of nose clips left over from his days as a synchronised swimmer. I guess he had neither the strength nor inclination to restrain Philly should she catch whiff of a ‘Greggs’ streak bake.

On the whole Clarry’s precautions worked well, enabling us to pass by Mac Donald’s, Burger King and Kentucky without any of the usual nose bagging which one often associates with Aunty Phil. It was just a shame we forgot about the ‘pig and mix’ counter in Woolworth’s. She was quicker than a rat up a drainpipe sending kids and pensioner toppling like bowling skittles as she raced towards the cocoa dusted truffles and mini macaroons. It took the strength of seven security guards to keep her off the seventeen foot high Fererro Roche pyramid display.

Lucky for me the kids are too young to appreciate real value. I can get away with any old cheap crappy tat, blaming Santas little elve's for any toys which break in seconds. I did get some of those new ‘Beanie Bear Religious Icon Teddies’. Being true to my faith I bought Jesus and Mary from the Catholic Range. Thank heavens they were still in stock unlike the Muslim bear range which had been urgently recalled. I watched as frantic store staff hastily removed all remaining stock of Middle Eastern bears from the shelves.

By lunchtime I was gagging for a Mocha-tini so we all piled into ‘Costa’s Coffee Lounge’ for some light refreshment. Philly, being more accustomed to ‘Greasy Nell’s Roadside Truck Stop’ read Costa’s menu with knitted eyebrows, biting her lip as she muddled her way through the bewildering range of beverages. Getting confused she asked the waiter for a ‘Hot Skinny Latino’. How embarrassing! Rico laughed saying he’d try his best. Turning to Clarry, frother in hand, Rico winked as he asked if there was anything Clarry wanted him to ‘cream up'.

I must say I was a little disappointed with my mocha-tini, which tasted more crappe than frappe so Philly and I left Clarry to pay the bill and of course ‘tip the waiter’. So Rico wouldn’t have to share his gratuity Clarry arranged to take him round the back whereby Clarry could discreetly slip him a ‘big tip’ in the rear loading bay.

With Clarry busy I nipped into ‘Argos’ to buy some man-bling from Elizabeth Puke. At £4.99 the gold plated copper choker was a little bit more than I wanted to spend on Clarry, but as Philly reminded me, “Tis the season of generosity” and to prove it she splashed eight quid on a sovereign ring for Gez.

Auntie Phil decided to buy Clarry some new swimwear for synchronised swimming. What luck, ‘Man-o-Man Sports’ were doing a pre-Christmas offer on ‘Borat Mankinis’. I bought a lime green one for Gez while Aunty Phil picked out one in shocking pink for Clarry. Lovely!

By the time we got home, Gez had gone back to bed. He’s not feeling to well, love him! He was cheering himself up with more German cinema on DVD. Poor thing, must have the most terrible cold though, I found used tissues everywhere!

Early night tonight, tomorrow’s a busy day what with Regina Clench’s first full pantomime rehearsal.
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Diary of a 39 year old woman is a work of fiction, honest, its not real you know, pure fantasy, well maybe one character is real!

Last edited by doobyscoo on Tue Dec 04, 2007 8:57 am; edited 9 times in total

Tues 04 Dec 2007
My Favourite Things

Advent Calendar Picture: Yule Log

It is one week to go before the dress rehearsal of 'Ali Berba and the Forty Ladroes'. If things weren't tense enough, in walks Regina Clench with another last minute re-write.

"Okay chaps..." she piped while sucking extra hard on a Cuban (cigar that is). The smoking ban has obviously been completely lost on Regina. "I saw 'Connie Fisher' in the Sound of Music last week...." Here-we-go I thought. "....It would be just soopar-doopar" Regina mused, " if we could just slot in a little Julie Andrews number".

A low groan grumbled through the assembled cast. "Now hear me out fellas!", she calls us all chaps or fellas, just her way I guess.

Handing out the revised script Regina went on to explain how an Anglo - Portuguese - Moroccan production will now also feature the Austrian 'Yod-a-laying' of the Family von Trap. She turns to me;

"So Zorro!" as-is my character. "You're in the cave, having just rescued Ali-berba from the 40 sword wielding 'Ladroes'" She lights up a fresh 'cafe crème' cigar, "....but you're both really scared, right?" I nodded. "Well I thought, to lighten the mood a little, we could bring on Maria von Trapp to cheerily sing 'My Favourite Things' ". I stared at her like a rabbit caught in the head lights!

".............. you know, my favourite things! Rain drops on roses and whiskers on kittens, bright copper kettles and warm woollen mittens." The ensemble cast helped her out by singing out the rest of the verse. "Thank you!!!!" she glared, silencing their singing with a solitary hand clap.

"Well we can't quite use those exact words, amateur rights withdrawn you see. I've had to 'make do' with a bit of, errmm...re-wording". Regina's creative licence should have been disqualified years ago, but on she goes, joy riding her way through the winding 'B' roads of dramatic art.

"So who is playing Maria von Trapp?", I enquired. Heather Milly-Macca looked up excitedly, her hands clasped in front of her chest. "No, not you Heather!" laughed Regina. "You're far to thin, I Need someone more robust, what you might call an all rounder!"

On she walked, 22 stone of Scottish haggis, tightly clad in a dress made from the finest Austrian drapery. "Ta....Daaaaaa!" Auntie Philomena exclaimed. The room was silent but for the stress creakage of the solid teak stage boards.

"Ok, from the top luvvie", chirped Regina, "and with the new words if you please". She poked Judy Stringer (our pianist), in the back with her roled up script and Judy started playing the familiar tune to 'My favourite things' and to a mouth agape audience, Auntie Philomena began to sing.

"Raindrops on roses, and whiskers on kittens,
Baked Scottish oat cakes from warm oven mittens,
Hot juicy beef joints all tied up with strings,
these are a few of my favourite things.

Cream covered pastries and crisp apple strudels
Dough balls and snowballs and Curry Pot Noodles.
Kentucky Fried Chicken with hot spicy wings.
these are a few of my favourite things.

Whirls of white chocolate with single cream splashes.
Tea cakes and steak baked on potato that mashes.
Silver white cod-steaks and fried onion rings.
These are a few of my favourite things.

When the zip splits, when the scales break,
when I'm feeling fat,
I simply remember my favourite things,
and then I don't feel so sad."

Nobody clapped except for Regina who was crying, shouting "Bravo". If it wasn't for Regina's audible euphoria I swear I would have heard the sound of 'Rogers & Hammerstein'..........

..........turning in their graves.
_________________
Diary of a 39 year old woman is a work of fiction, honest, its not real you know, pure fantasy, well maybe one character is real!

Last edited by doobyscoo on Tue Dec 04, 2007 7:33 pm; edited 2 times in total

Thursday 6th December
‘The Diary of Anne Frank’

Gez and I have been hiding in the attic since Monday which hasn’t been nice at all.

While on holiday, we made the mistake of giving our address to some locals. You know what its like, you promise to keep in touch and say should you ever be in England to be sure to visit. We were only being polite, we didn’t think for one minute they’d ever take us up on the offer.

Gez went mad when he heard they were on their way. Clarry suggested we hide out in the attic for a few days and he would tell everyone we were out of town.

Aunt Philly tried to get in the attic too, only the hatch wasn’t quite wide enough to squeeze her portly girth. Instead she’s taken the kids to my mums for a while, my mother is no happier about this than I.

It’s been awful. Gez has been like a caged lion, pacing up and down with nothing to do. I realised this has been the longest time in years we have spent solely in each others company. Bloody hell, I’ve been bored to tears, all he ever talks about is money, masons and his wider agenda. Whatever that is?

While cooped up in the attic I dug out our wedding album. I couldn’t believe I was so fat; I must have been a good four pounds heavier than now. It poured with rain on our wedding day, Gez looked a right misery guts in every picture. Foolishly, I thought our self imposed confinement might somehow help our marital relations. No such luck, Gez was more interested in pictures of my friend Rachel in her wet clingy bridesmaid’s frock.

I did manage to keep myself occupied by reading ‘The Diary of Anne Frank’. Oh how awful; camped up in an attic, hated in their own country, evading capture with the ongoing fear of imprisonment, or worse! Not quite as good as a ‘Jackie Collins’, but nethertheless an interesting read.

Clarry’s given us the all clear so thankfully we’ve been able to come back down. I never did finish the book and having left it in the attic I doubt I ever will. I wonder what became of Anne Frank, I’m sure, should I have read to the end, there’d have been a happy ever after.

Too-da-loo.
_________________
Diary of a 39 year old woman is a work of fiction, honest, its not real you know, pure fantasy, well maybe one character is real!

Friday 7th December
‘What the Dickens’

What a night of terror! I’m still drenched in sweat! I’m writing my diary right this minute before the distractions of the day erase the terrible dreams from my tormented mind.

It all started late last night, just after Clarry had put the kids to bed…….

-0-

Marley was dead: to begin with. There was no doubt about that.

“No doubt about that” I said as I prodded the upturned hamster, lifeless on the floor of its cage. Poor Marley! “Dead as a door nail” confirmed Clarry as he flushed the filthy rodent down the toilet. I did feel partly responsible for Marley’s demise as I examined parch dry water marks inside his empty drinking bottle. Ah well, never mind. Here today, forgotten tomorrow, that’s my motto.

I was tempted to also flush Clarry’s head down the toilet after the inconsiderate ‘dog tooth’ requested Christmas day off work! I ask you, what is the f*****g point having staff if they clear off when you most need them? I only offered Clarry leave for Christmas morning on the strict condition he’ll be back by noon to cook the turkey. It’s mine and Gez’s Christmas too.

What with one dead hamster, one grumpy man servant and my husband absent, God only knows where he is? I went up to bed. As I fluffed my duck down pillows I had no idea what restless night lay ahead of me.

The ‘Argos’ reproduction grandfather clock which so effectively sent me sleeping with its slow melodic lullaby tick was equally responsible for my startled awakening as it struck the hour of one.

Through bleary eyes and night shadow I could see the outline of someone, or something sitting on my bed. I scrambled for the reading lamp which duly illuminated Auntie Philly wearing, of all things, a girl guides outfit! I’ve always suspected she might be some kind of repressed kinky lesbian so I quickly felt under the bed clothes to check if I was still wearing my night dress and comfort pants; thankfully yes I was!

Taking my trembling hand, Auntie Phil said she wanted to show me something from my Christmas past. Hopefully, I thought; not the time I photocopied my tits at the regional health trust Christmas party.

Within a blink of an eye we were transported to places vaguely remembered in times almost forgot. There I was a spotty ‘girl guide’ of eight years old, a scrawny six’er from Pixie pack, live on children’s television receiving her ‘Blue Peter’ badge having collected 10,000 silver bottle tops in aid of the ‘Joey Deacon’ appeal.

I recalled that day well, singing my little heart out in the mini bus then running home to tell Mummy and Daddy how ‘Blue Peter’ presenter ‘Leslie Judd’ smelled of malt whisky. They’d both ignored me as they got merry with their party friends. I’d never felt so happy and so sad all in the same day.

The clock struck 2am: again I bolted up in bed, the night lamp still alight as a heavenly apparition hovered over me. It was Jane from Exeter, dressed as an angel she sang ‘Silent Night’. Jane looked radiant and beautiful so I knew it had to be a dream. She whispered to me something about my ‘Christmas present’ and I sincerely hoped it wasn’t going to be another of her twisted ‘gimp’ paintings.

With a clickity-click of her satin white stiletto heels we were transported to a familiar beauty salon where I was treated to the full works: Christmas highlights, hair extensions, eyebrow threading, buff puff, makeover and some false talon nails in red. They even did my bikini line in the shape of a Norwegian Spruce. I looked ‘elfin’ fantastic.

Looking every bit like Santa’s hottest ‘Chrimbo Bimbo’ I exited the shop walking the high street as if it were a Parisian cat walk. Passing the band stand I sauntered along to the haunting brass tones which echoed Jane’s earlier rendition of ‘Silent Night’.

Surrounding the ‘Sali-Army’ band were a group of girl guides collecting money for the Christmas hungry and the Christmas poor. A girl who could have been me thirty years earlier shook a collection tin under my nose. Without sparing a glance I turned heel in the snow, dashing as I went towards ‘Horncock’s’ newsagents where I bought a quarter pound of sticky humbugs.

3am, again woken by the blasted chiming clock, I know where that’ll be going come Christmas morn; in the bin if I get my way!

Was I awake or was I dreaming?

I slipped wearily downstairs with the excuse that my dry mouth needed water, a feeling that gave me pause to think once again of poor dead Marley. No doubt the blasted hamster would soon start haunting me in my dreams too. Truthfully, my real reason for going downstairs was to seek reassurance to my state of waken sobriety. The sight of Clarry prancing round the kitchen dressed as a Christmas fairy provided all the proof I needed. I was definitely and unmistakably sober and awake!

Further nuggets of reassurance were found in the medicine cabinet as I broke the blister strip from a fresh box of delicious ‘snoozy-woozy’ diazepam.

What woke me for the third time was the thing which terrified me most of all. The deafening chalky squeal of heavy iron chains grating the wooden floor, dragged along by Gez as he limped towards me from the murky shadows. Cupping my face in his icy shackled hands he beckoned me towards my Christmas future; the horrific confides of a cold, dark, dank prison cell.

I woke up screaming!

Clarry ran in, still, I might add, wearing the pink and peach fairy outfit. “Slap my face!” I screamed, needing to know if I was still dreaming.

“With pleasure ma-am” said Clarry as he stung me with his best.

-0-

I wonder what it all can mean, must speak to ‘Astro Astrid’ my trusted palmist. Now I’ve got it down on paper I can indeed busy myself with the distractions of the day. I’ve got an eleven o’clock at ‘Tiffany Fontaines’ for hair, nails, makeover and bikini trim and then I’ve got to go to ‘Horncocks’ to pay the papers. Perhaps I’ll buy myself some minty boiled sweets as I go.

God bless us, everyone!
_________________
Diary of a 39 year old woman is a work of fiction, honest, its not real you know, pure fantasy, well maybe one character is real!

The Foretelling

Advent Calendar Picture – Red Breasted Robin

I’m still feeling disturbed by my strange dreams. Even my vigorous aerobics DVD ‘Wake up and Shimmy with the Electric Light Orchestra’ did nothing to shake away my eerie sense of foreboding unease.

Nothing else for it, I made an appointment with Astrid Astro. Astrid can usually be found during the summer season working from a Caravanette parked up on the bronzed mile of the Skegness seafront promenade. During the winter months she works from her council bungalow on the outskirts of the Scuttlethorpe estate.

I don’t really like driving through Scuttlethorpe if I can possibly help it, but this time of year it can be quite fun, lit up as it is, brighter than the Las Vegas Strip with its endless parade of flashing fairy lights, blow up Santa’s and cheap plastic illuminated snow men. I also noticed some signs beckoning Santa to ‘please stop here’. All I can say is, Santa must be a braver soul than me.

Astrid (second daughter’ to ‘Gypsy Rosa Lee’) is the accredited palm reader and confident to many a star turn. As true testament to this notoriety she has faded ‘black & white’ photographs of her clientele adorning the walls of the burlesque bordello she calls her home. Vera Duckworth, Lorraine Chase, Daniel O’Donnell to name but a few. A highlight for me was a colour sun-bleached Polaroid of ‘housewife’s choice’ Des Lineham having his deep creviced life line well and truly fingered by the all seeing mystic.

Astrid sipped her elm bark tea as I relayed in great detail the nature of my tossing night terrors. Once I’d finished she said I’d have to fork out a whopping forty quid for a full reading.

I was somewhat short of the required ‘silver’ from which to cross her outstretched palm but not to worry, the sordid topic of coin was not quite so sordid to Astrid as she placed a portable ‘chip n pin’ reader next to her crystal ball with an open invitation to cross her palm with something far more valuable than silver. My shiny plastic gold card.

I must admit, I did harbour a few sceptic doubts to Asrid’s methods when she passed over her mystic deck for me to shuffle. It was my contention she had probably done her best card trick the moment her machine read and debited my ‘AMEX Gold’.

I’m quite modern she explained as she retrieved the shuffled pack. I’ll say, she had ‘top trumps’ cards intermingled within her tarot deck. “Shhhh” she said, placing her fingers to my lips, serving to stifle any question or protest. Placing the cards, the strange half gypsy arranged them face down in the configuration of a pentangle. Slowly she turned what she called the ‘central spectral quarto’; four cards which foretold the ‘here and now’.

With a deep intake of breath she said I had suffered a great and painful loss. Yeah, I thought; forty quid in Astrid’s pocket, not to mention my petrol money home but I kept quiet. Astrid looked me straight in the eye as if my thoughts had been spoken aloud, she whispered “I think you’ll find your expense and journey well spent!”

“F**k me!” I thought, again in my head rather than out loud, to which she replied “I won’t be doing that either, I’m a clairvoyant not a male gigolo”. She laughed and told me to relax and reassured of her abilities I did just that.

From within the four ‘here and now’ cards were; The Charlatan, The Queen of Pearls, The Jester and the Slothful Dog. The cards represented people with influence in the ‘house of now’. Pointing at the Charlatan, Astrid asked if my husband were a medic. I nodded.

“He tell many lies…… Many!” Astrid continued “He be much influenced by this wilful vixen too”, she pointed to the ‘Queen of Pearls’.

The Queen of Pearls, Astrid explained was also the keeper of pennies, someone whom possibly provides financial advice to my husband. She went on to explain that Gez’s unchallenged lust for greed and this woman could ultimately be his downfall. My thoughts raced to Esther and the many ‘pearl necklaces’ Gez has given her for managing his pension fund. I bit my lip and said nothing.

Pointing to the Jester, Astrid spoke of a fool, a clown in my employment. She must have meant Clarry. She said to pay no heed of his poor judgment; to do so would do me no favour whatsoever. Thinking back he did shrink my favourite backless sweater in last weeks wash.

She didn’t even need to explain who the slothful dog was. Aunty Philomena is still eating me out of house and home.

The next card she turned was the teacher and the lover. She winked at me before muttering the words ‘dirty bitch’ under her breath. Turning more cards in the pentangle she saw ‘The Inquisitors’, men who were travelling overseas with many unanswered questions. The next Tarot were even more alarming, ‘The Incarcerated Lady’ and ‘The holder of keys’, a jailer!

The final card, ‘The Nine beggars at the feast of Tapas’ Astrid tapped several times to underline the importance of her point. “These nine people hold the key to your fate”.

What a load of old Cobblers! I can’t believe she even had the cheek to ask for a further six quid to ‘rune out’ my lucky lotto numbers. I told her to stuff it, forty quid down the pan was more than enough for one day, and that came out my blessed boob job fund!

Anyway, must get on practising my Zorro lines, it’s the pantomime dress rehearsal tomorrow and then the world premier on Friday. I hope it goes well. Astrid did say she saw a crowd of people laughing……mmmm????
_________________
Diary of a 39 year old woman is a work of fiction, honest, its not real you know, pure fantasy, well maybe one character is real!

Friday 14th December
Break a Leg

Advent Calendar Picture – Santa’s Bulging Sack

Two hours to curtain up for the world premier of ‘Ali-berba’. As leading lady I’ve got my own dressing room, unlike Heather Milly-Macca who I’ve just past in the wings lugging costumes. Heather failed to see the funny side when I mischievously shouted ‘break a leg’ in her direction.

Regina’s re-writes worked well in last nights dress rehearsal, but even so, I’m still more nervous than a Norfolk turkey awaiting the coming of Christmas. I’ve just popped two valium in the hope that it will calm my trembling anxiety. There were a few problems in rehearsal but I’m confident Regina has them all ironed out. The broken stage, a result of Auntie Philomena’s fantastic ‘hot hoofing’ tap routine, has since been repaired and reinforced with galvanised iron girders so hopefully we wont be seeing a repeat of Aunt Phil’s unexpected disappearing act.

Clarry is so excited, he’s been prancing about all day in his Widow Twanker outfit which he’ll be wearing when he sings his own solo version of the ‘Dead or Alive’ hit, ‘You spin me round (like a record)’.

As Zorro I’m opening the show wearing satin ‘Capri’ pants which are even tighter (I’m proud to say) than the ones worn by Olivia Newton-John in ‘Grease’. Gez even wolf-whistled me as I put them on, something he’s not done in years so I’m hoping to wear them home to tonight so he can play Danny Zucho to my Sandy, you know…..”Tell me about it stud!” I think the vally-wally is kicking in now.

Regina has just been in to stash the Champagne ready for the first night party. Bloody Nora! Twenty four bottles of ‘Moet’! My-My someone has been splashing out; they can’t have been bought from Ms Clench’s clasped purse. She’s tighter than a Nuns chunt!

Another valium! The trouble is it really dries out the old larynx and I’ve not done my vocal warm ups yet. I don’t suppose anyone would notice if I popped a cork on the one bottle, just to wet my whistle. If I do it now while no one’s around, Ms Clench would never know it was me taking a sneaky lick from the bottle. I mean, what harm could it do?

On stage in just over an hour. Break a leg!

Saturday 15th December
Saggy Titted Sagittarius

Oh my goodness! What have I gone and done! I’ve been barred from the Rothley Players for life.

I can barely remember anything! And No bloody wonder! After checking the vacant holes in my Valium blister pack it’s obvious I’d been popping the buggers as if they were the kids ‘smarties’.

I do remember Regina storming into the dressing room to find two empty bottles of ‘Moet’ on the floor and me draining a third. Given my ‘given’ inebriation she immediately demoted me from leading lady, giving my part to of all people, HEATHER MILLY-MACCA!!!!!!

Regina would have chucked me out all together but there was no one else to play the back end of the pantomime horse. Unceremoniously I was peeled out of my ‘Capri’ pants and shoved, butt naked, into the ass end of a horse.

Mrs Horncock who was the ‘front end’ was wearing very little too. Presumably she’d anticipated the heat of nylon fur under hot stage lighting. Unfortunately I hadn’t anticipated my face being shoved quite so close to Mrs Horncock’s lacy garter thong as Regina coupled us up to make one seamless panto-horse.

What happened thereafter I only know due to Regina’s parting gift of a DVD recording which documented every last embarrassing second of my on stage debut. What a performance! I’ve just chewed through my best sofa cushion watching it.

There I was the back end of a horse staggering about all over the place. If only I’d stayed inside the costume and no one would have known it was little me inside. But I didn’t!

My moment of ultimate shame occurred when Aunty Phil was just about to sing ‘My Favourite Things’. Mrs Horncock must have broke wind in my face because all of a sudden I was seen to break free, holding my nose and sticking out my tongue, my face filled with such revulsion I barely recognised myself.

There I was, me! Standing half naked in the spot light for all to see, not so much a bare chest centaur as a ‘Saggy Titted Sagittarius’

Frozen! Petrified by the stark and unforgiving spot light beam I stood for endless seconds dripping in my own sweat. The male contingent of the audience cheered riotously at the sight of my bra-less top half with my small boobs framed only by the costume’s elasticated braces. Braces which I then (god only knows why) proceeded to outstretch in a comic ‘rock on’ fashion.

What came next, from my filthy mouth I can only think was from deep within my subconscious, the ranting of a woman spurred on by combination of champagne, valium and a jeering mail chorus of approval.

Grabbing the microphone from Aunty Phil I merrily conversed with the audience singing my dirt soaked psalm in perfect melody to the tune of my favourite things.

“Rain drops, oh f**k that, give me something forbidden
Wild times in bushes, only partially hidden
Legs fixed to bed posts, hands tied with strings
These are a few of my favourite things

Bored lonely housewife, I typed into google
Two hours later, on fours like a poodle
He was quite daring and wore two cock rings
He made me beg for my favourite things

He in tight leather, his whips gave me lashes
Bottom spanked so hard, I came out in rashes.
When he pulled out, I nearly went ping,
That was down to the size of his thing.

I want love bites - on my bee stings,
Make me feel real bad,
Give me a man with some size to his thing
Then I will feeeeeeeeel soooooooooo glaaaaaaaaaaaaad.

Oh for the shame, I even cupped my breast while singing the end chorus. The Vontrap child singers who were supposed to join Aunty Phil in a sort of ‘ring-a-rosy’ dance stood on, their mouths open in shocked horror. The older children stared in shocked delight!

I would have gone for a second verse if it weren’t for Regina Clench screaming from the wings “GET EM OFF, GET EM OFF!!!!!!”. Heather Milly Macca clearly misinterpreting Regina’s instruction ripped open her costume blouse to even louder roars of male approval.

Not to be upstaged by Heather (or anyone for that matter) I jumped up on Ms Macca’s back sending her flying to the floor. At Regina’s instruction the stage curtain was lowered entangling us both in a knot of red velvet swish. Then an almighty scream and the sound of tearing fabric as Heathers ‘peg leg ‘ was pulled from what should have been my satin Capri pants. I proceeded to swing the prosthetic apendage round and round my head before finally tossing it into the orchestra pit. Eventually we were carried off separately by two hairy pantomime dames to the riotous approval of an audience on its feet.

Oh for the love of Mary forgive me!

It’s splashed all over this mornings tabloids. “Rothley Rampant Ravers in Kinky Panty-mime”. Gez is so angry he’s divorcing me!

What am I going to do?
_________________
Diary of a 39 year old woman is a work of fiction, honest, its not real you know, pure fantasy, well maybe one character is real!

Monday 17th December
Infamy Infamy

They’ve all got it in for me!

Gez is gone, Clarry isn’t talking to me and if things weren’t bad enough already, I suffered the embarrassment of being arrested on one count of grievous bodily harm against Heather Milly-Macca and two counts of gross public indecency for lewd and depraved acts in a public theatre.

It was Sergeant Hard-ache who clapped me in cold shackles, read me my rights and escorted be past the throws of paparazzi who have been camped out behind my front bush (presumably in the hopes of getting a picture of the same). I spent most of yesterday ‘banged up’ in the Leicester Constabulary’s custodial suite.

SUITE! I don’t know how they’ve got the cheek. It was hardly a place of comfort and luxury. It’s a good job I didn’t need to use the Victorian excuse for a flushable s**t pan. Not that my imposed ‘cell mate’ was quite so picky, she was on it more often than a Pixie with irritable bowel syndrome. Seasonal overcrowding did mean I had to share confinement with local repeat offender Sandy Creamer who, while sitting on the rusty commode with her knickers round her ankles, told me she was up for her seventeenth ‘Streetwalking’ conviction.

I advised Sandy she might be better taking the bus or perhaps even getting a bike if she wanted to avoid further brushes with the police. Not that-that is the answer, even with the aid of a bicycle you can still get into serious trouble. I remember as a teenager getting severely ticked off by a shirty policeman who caught me on the pavement, red handed not to mention 'red faced' as I rode up and down on my boyfriends ‘chopper’.

Sandy and I chatted about this and that. I did tell her all about my fight with Heather Milly-Macca. She said it’s about time someone gave her ‘what for’. Since Heather moved to town Sandy said she’d lost a lot of her trade. Nowadays she’s hard pushed to find ends, never mind make them meet! Offering me a piece of ‘Juicy Fruit’ gum she questioned how she was supposed to sell her wares with the likes of Heather handing it out for free. I had no idea what she was going on about so, like the Queen, I nodded while smiling in general agreement.

Funnily enough Sandy seemed to know my husband quite well, what with him often being around to offer her lifts and escort her safely home to her Scuttlethorpe' bed sitter. Kind of Gez really. I did ask Sandy how I might win him back. Well! What Sandy doesn’t know about the wants, needs and desires of men you could fit on the back of a till receipt. Like Stephen Hawkins, she’s a universe of information just without the aid of ‘voice generator’ and motorized wheelchair, Mind you given Sandy’s vast experience I wouldn’t put that past her.

Anyway, the upshot of the conversation was that I must press on with my boob job. Also, I’m not to worry about Gez giving Esther all those ‘Pearl Necklaces’, instead I’ve got to go out and get myself a string of pearls of my own. She didn’t mean for me to wear them either as she furnished me with the graphic details of how, with her most secret pleasure tricks, she could guarantee I will bring Gez begging to his knees.

After an enthralling ten hours in the cell with Sandy, a burly WPC opened the hatch to inform me that my briefs were on the way. I asked Sandy if that meant I would be getting some badly needed fresh underwear. She spat out her gum laughing before explaining. Still confused I wondered if the solicitor would still be thoughtful enough to bring me clean knickers! Luckily he did along with an ‘off the peg’ black suit from ‘Marks & Sparks’ to boot.

Three hearty cheers for Mr Branson who sent my legal knights in tweed armour. As it turns out, Regina Clench had not been very complimentary towards Mr B since he pulled funding from her pantomime so he was delighted by my little act of theatrical sabotage and pulled out his best pair of briefs in the hopes of ‘getting me off’.

Getting me off wasn’t exactly easy; I was initially probed by two junior officers and then it was Detective Inspector Swift-Rogers turn to finger me. Something he did for the best part of an hour, talk the long arm of the law! Using his best 'bully boy' tactics he said wanted me ‘banged up’ for the night.

Luckily Mr Branson’s lawyers were having none of it, from behind the interogators desk they fully debriefed D.I. Swift–Rogers right before my eyes, tying him up in knots of red tape before giving him a good thrashing. All in a good old fashioned legal sense of course.

With all charges dropped on the grounds of my responsibilities being somewhat diminished I was liberated in time of tea. Mummy called, said she knew everything that had gone on between me Gez, Heather Milly Macca and Mrs Horncocks lacy garter thong. She said it's all over the internet as well as being the 'feature download' of the week on Youtube. She's coming coming over tomorrow to sort me out. She loves Gez so I’m not in her good books. Not that I can’t remember a time when I ever was.
_________________
Diary of a 39 year old woman is a work of fiction, honest, its not real you know, pure fantasy, well maybe one character is real!

Wednesday 19th December
A Touchy Mother and a Mothers Touch

I watched from behind the bedroom curtains as Mum pulled up the drive in her Mercedes, it wasn’t until she saw the Paparazzi did she muster a smile, spinning a photogenic twirl as she slammed closed the car door. All smiles were of course gone by the time she’d marched through the front door. Leaning sideward she greeted me by kissing the air around my left lobe. An eager spider could have spun its silky web between us and not a single thread would have been disturbed.

My Mum, being who she is, has this odd little habit when she visits me (which incidentally isn’t very often) of keeping her coat on as long as she can possibly manage. I’ve actually started timing her; her record to date being forty three minutes. Today was no exception, “Away with you man” she said, shoo-shooing Clarry off as he tried to remove her beige cashmere classic. It’s almost like she anticipates her departure well before her arrival.

Still wearing her coat she told me to look at her, not her shoes! A sign I was about to get one of her good old fashioned catholic lectures on the shameful sin of divorce.

“I don’t care what you have to do young lady!” she said, holding my chin in her cold fingers. “You get him back!”

She arched her brows, rolling her eyes across the arc. “Lord only knows what I’m going to tell your Father? We didn’t bring you up to disappoint us like this. Did we?” I slowly shook my head and held back the tears. I won't allow myself, despite her best efforts, to provide her the satisfaction of a single tear.

We spent the afternoon doing the only thing we’d ever really done together. Shopping! Of course when I say together, what I mean is; we were never more than four feet apart. In reality I’d never felt quite so alone, watching as I did, the happy festive shoppers snapping up dreams to be unwrapped by loved ones on Yuletide morning.

I asked Mum while we coffee’d in ‘Druckers’ if it were ok for me and the kids to stay over Christmas?

“Of course you can”, she said “Only……” grabbing a brochure from her handbag, “…me and your Dad won’t be there.” She proceeded to show me pictures of idyllic Seychellois beach huts from where they’ll be cracking their Christmas coconuts.

No sooner had we got back home and Mum was eager to get off, not wanting as she did to get caught up in rush-hour traffic. I told her it was a shame she couldn’t have waited until the kids were home from school, but as she reminded me, she’d see them in the New Year and I, as they, should be happy Grandma bought them so many lovely things for Christmas.

Walking towards the door she brushed past, again without kissing me. Turning around she looked back in my direction. “Nearly forgot!” she laughed before instructing Clarry to wrap and tag ‘Grandmas’ gifts before sending them off to Santa! I only wish she’d cared those years when I’d found my own gifts under the tree in carrier bags, the year she’d told me ‘Santa’s little helpers must have run out of wrapping paper this year’!

Mum left; waving. Not to me of course but to the waiting paparazzi. I watched her, again hidden behind the bedroom curtain and for a fleeting second, I caught her in the lightning of a camera’s flash. It wasn’t her I was seeing, it was me!

It’s not the first time I’ve caught myself in my Mother but this time it did make me stop and think. If only I could love her, if only I could like her. Oh, if only… only I didn’t need my mothers love not least the woman’s slightest approval. I could stop needing those things no more than I could stop my age from fast approaching forty. Looking hard in the mirror I gasped, not knowing if it was the thought of turning forty or the distain of my Mother so vividly reflected which made me shudder so.

Going downstairs I found Auntie Philomena raiding the Christmas tree for chocolate pennies. She looked up; smiling at me with such serene kindness I was filled with an overwhelming rush of sadness and shame. A sadness which I guess only a woman of Philomena’s struggle would ever have recognised.

Taking me in her gentle hug, she held me softly….safely. It seemed to matter nothing that her chocolate fingers smudged designer cloth, no more than it mattered to her for all my cutting remarks, my jokes, my insults. Or at least for those precious moments they didn’t matter. And for all I‘ve ever said of her size, I’m truly sorry for now I know for certain; She’s a bigger woman than I’ll ever be.

I held on tight for all the warmth and comfort she had to give. And in those big loving arms I became someone else, someone forgotten. A girl! A girl held safe in the bosom of a woman she so wished was her mother….

….And for the memory of a forgotten little girl, betrayed by the woman I became, I cried the tears of a lifetime.

The End.

(And the start, of a new beginning)

Merry Christmas
Doobyscoo

Friday 21st December 2007
Easy Jets

The best part of the morning was taken up with driving Aunt Philomena and her Royal Ladyshit to East Midlands airport so they could catch another ‘Easy Jet’ special. Not to Rome this time, his holiness can wait; To Geneva they went, a place where intervention remains more surgical than divine.

With Gez still at Esther’s I’m left very much to my own devises. What with all the Christmas baking, basting shopping and mopping to be done I’m run off my feet. I did call Sukdeep and told him I was very much in need of a bit of relief and if he could come over and give me a hand that would be most welcoming. He said he’d like nothing more than to come in my direction and further tempted by my ‘Paprika Pringles’ he was over like a shot.

Saturday 22nd December 2007
My Fair Lady-hosen

Last night Sukdeep and I spent a most enjoyable evening together, he made a start on my jumbo sausage rolls while I basted his spicy meatballs before giving them a good hot roasting in my special oven. What with our exertions in the kitchen we were somewhat exhausted so I suggested we retire to the living room to watch Audrey Hepburn in ‘My Fair Lady’. Imagine our surprise to find an unmarked mystery disk already in the DVD player. ‘My Fair Lady’ it wasn’t! It was however My Fair Lady employer ‘getting in on’ with Hans Beaver-Lichen as she practiced her German oral. How we both laughed as I translated her German oratory for Sukdeeps benefit.

“I’m a good girl, I am”.

I’ve safely stashed the dodgy disk, you never know, it might come in handy one day soon.

Sunday 23rd December 2007
Boobed Under Pressure

And her Regal Queensize returns! A day early against the better advice of her cosmetic surgeon, Dr Ample, who suggested she might have waited a further 24 hours after the operation before embarking on air travel. It was advice she should have taken on board, rather than board the Boeing. Her 42 DD’s of new silicon having not fully settled reacted badly under cabin altitude pressure expanding to double their enhanced size.

My God, fifty four inch double G’s on an 8 ½ stone woman. To say she can’t ‘carry em off’ is an understatement; The ‘easy jet’ crew had to bring her off the plane in a gurney chair.

Coming through customs she gleefully taunted the officers who asked if she had anything to declare. I’ll say, not so much a boob job as a bodge job. Anyway, wheelchair bound she will remain until she can muster the spinal strength to walk unaided.

Monday 24th December 2007
Christmas Eve
Arse over tit

Being unable to manage the stairs, m’lady spent an uncomfortable night on the leather recliner. On her instruction I contacted ‘Stannah’ who retro fitted the house with an emergency mechanical stair-lift. Even with the contraption fitted to the stair wall it’s been tricky getting her up. Its like mountain climbing mountain, the only way we’ve managed is to balance her gargantuan breasts on the lift seat while she gingerly follows on foot, hopefully keeping perfect synchronisation with the 45 degree angle of the moving seat. Not easy!

Perfecting the manoeuvre was not without unfortunate mishap. She’d almost made the top when, losing her footing, her left boob slipped off the mechanical seat and boundered to the step below. Her centre of gravity completely un-centred, she was sent not so much arse over tit as tit over arse as she tumbled down the stairs screaming as she went. Luckily Aunty Phil was on hand to break her fall. The kids thought it was the funniest thing ever.

Christmas or no Christmas they were sent crying to their bedroom by their very sore and angry mother leaving me to settle the kids down to bed. They were so excited about what Santa might be bringing them. Good job Auntie Phil and I had rushed round to Argos for some toys this year. Who can forget last year when the kids bulging stockings contained two pairs of expensive women’s shoes, a Jaeger suit, and a diamante choker. “Oops Santas little mix up, might as well keep them” she had said, especially as they were conveniently in her size.

My own Christmas shopping I’ve had to do ‘in house’, a little thing Paul Burrell’s Butler academy taught me. I’ve found lots of lovely Mantelpiece objettes and pricey family heirlooms which I’ve cunningly gift wrapped for my own kith and kin. Obsessed with her own narcissistic doings, M’lady will never even notice they’re gone.

Tuesday 25th December 2007
Christmas Day
Mistletoe & Vodka

Sweet flickin cranberries, I’ll be pleased when this Christmas malarkey is over. I was originally promised a few hours off on Christmas Day. That of course went out the window the minute Gez went out the door. I’ve been run ragged all day, not least by Aunty Phil in her ‘Anne Summer’s Sexy Miss SeXmas’ outfit. She’s been relentless in chasing me round for a tonguee snog under the mistletoe.

Her Maj demanded I unwrap all her Christmas presents, lest she break a nail. It looks like Jane from Exeter is still painting as I unwrapped her latest finger paint and potato print masterpiece, 'The Egg Man'

While M’lady was dressing, I was left with the impossible task of putting kids toys together at a faster rate than they could smash them to pieces. The rest of the morning was spent with my arm elbow deep up a turkey’s backside as I prepared Christmas dinner. Lordy only knows what had happened to my Gold Sovereign ring, a gift from Sukdeep.

Once dinner was over, she who must be obeyed got all religious, well by religious I mean she’d started on the Christmas spirits. By tea time, she, and Aunty Phil had got through four pints of Vodka laced eggnog.

They’re now passed out and snoring their way through ‘Eastenders’ while the kids play happily upstairs on their Nintendo Wii.

Me, I’m knackered, sober and alone on Christmas day as I nibble on the thin pickings of a turkey cadaver stripped bare courtesy of Aunt Phil.

Christmas, Gerry please come home!

Wednesday 26th December
Boxing Day
Aunty Phil’s Yuletide Log

Boxing day is a day when traditionally the servants of the house get their gifts. Nice to see this house holds with such tradition as Auntie Philomena left me a lovely gift of a ‘Yuletide Log’, I was just in the process of unblocking the guest en-suite lavatory of said 'log' when I saw something shiny nestled within the ‘nut cluster’….My Sovereign Ring! My gift from Sukdeep. I don’t think I’ll ever wear it again. I flushed the toilet and watched as the Elizabeth Duke nine carat disappeared down the u-bend. I’ll buy a replacement, he’ll never know!

Thursday 27th December
The Wanderer Returns

Gez is back! Her ladyship is over the moon. She thinks she’s been forgiven for her shameful pantomime but the real reason is that Esther has chucked him out on his ear.

As it transpires, after checking the pension fund Gez discovered to his dismay that it had plummeted to a five figure sum, he’s absolutely furious with Esther who has been foolishly investing heavily is some hither to unknown Barcelona based company. The returns are ludicrously disappointing to say the least.

Gez now considers divorce to be an option he can ill afford to take.