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Just a typical Saturday

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So I overslept this morning and woke up to the sound of a chupacabra crawling about in the wall cavity above the front door.

It may have been a bird. Or a mouse, or a rat.  Either way, my daughter heard it too so I know it wasn’t me going nuts (again).  It’s gone quiet since so it’s either escaped, died, or is lying in wait to peck or claw its way out in the early hours and suck our blood.

AyudaChupa (1)


Meanwhile I’ve been into Sadford two days running and now feel like I need therapy. And by therapy, I mean beer.


You’ll never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy than …. Bradford


The bus journey there on my Mum mission to exchange the too small short shorts was very much full of people like this.


Ashtray’s a girl’s name

I hoped I didn’t blend in.

I also prayed none of them were going to buy short shorts.

Primarda was like a scene from Dante’s Inferno. Clammy, hot, swarming with lost souls, eyes aglaze as they bustled through the racks of tat on their individual quests for sweatshop made, hotwash intolerant garments of ill-advised fashion.


Abandon hope all ye who enter here (especially on a Saturday)

I then went to the pool to observe some lessons to gain some teaching tips. This would have been a very helpful exercise had I gone on the right day.  It was meant to be next weekend FFS!  What a dingus. My mentor wasn’t even there – she’s in London.


So then I set off for home and had to run for the bus. Not a pretty sight for anyone witness to such a thing. Even more so when it wasn’t even my bastarding bus. 


In my head I looked like this.


The reality was probably closer to this.


Particularly whilst wearing an oversized men’s ‘Wyld Stallyns’ * vest with one boob peeping out of the sleeve. (I was at least wearing a bra).

So I’ll leave you with that image.,,

You’re welcome!



*Bill & Ted fans – next Saturday is ‘Speak like Bill & Ted Day’.  Sixty-Nine Dudes!


Doesn’t quite count as Out let alone Out Out

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After the initial anger of Friday’s Close Encounter of the Third Kind came the inevitable plummet into unhappiness.¬†Pootling about on the internet and checking, out of curiosity, what else was out there on the employment market did nothing to ease that sudden onset of malaise of the mind.
¬†¬† ¬£4K a year more than I earn now if I was a lollypop lady in Scotland! (Assume high salary includes some kind of thermal underwear & sou’wester allowance).

¬†¬£19K p.a. for a HLTA¬†in Leeds at a CofE school?!¬† I bet they don’t get fingers jabbed in their faces there!

The only thing for it was to spend most of Saturday aimlessly wandering the streets under the guise of retail therapy (whilst actually just wanting to avoid any form of conversation or positive social interaction).  So I took myself off to Leeds for the day.  Alone.  People-watching.  Anything rather than spend another weekend in the house with childerbeast & Bman moaning about being bored or listening to them all shouting at each other on the Xbox or Minecraft, or shouting at them myself over some minor tidiness infraction.  Less me getting away from them, and more me distancing myself from them for the day to give them a break!

At Bradford Interchange I saw a man who had one foot much smaller than the other (or at least one shoe was way too large for him?)  Had he bought an odd pair by mistake or did he actually have a mis-sized pair of feet?  One a size 10 and the other a petite 5?

There was also a tiny girl of about 5ft¬†1″ who was wearing skyscraper heels.¬† She must have been miniscule without the killer stillies on.¬† She looked fabulous but I pitied her arches when she got home if she was planning on touring around the shops in those bad boys!¬† I had my leopard print flats on and my feet were aching something rotten by the time I got home.

There’s something pleasingly therapeutic about sitting on public transport, wired for sound, book in hand thinking about nothing but the tunes in my ears and the words infront of me (Cloud Atlas – David Mitchell).

Once¬†in Leeds I set to with the task of drifting without purpose.¬† It’s been a while since I wandered the shops of Leeds for any length of time.¬† Primani¬†inevitably loomed and I was drawn in on the promise of cheaply made bargain fashion items.¬† I got a pair of shorts & sandals for Thing 1 for our holiday to France.¬† I then spent over 20 minutes in the underwear dept in a fruitless attempt to find a bra in my size.¬† Proving then that my tits are in fact so shit that they can’t even be bothered to make any in my size.
  Mostly I was agog at the array, the plethora, if you will, of utter shite for sale.  The items seemed to cater mainly for the undersized, the under 18s, Thai Ladyboys, East European hookers & the mentally unhinged (or possibly all of the above).
I wanted to photograph some of the more ghastly pieces but feared apprehension from the store staff who may have thought I was a spy for a rival purveyor of

Atrocious apparel wars!

I found myself eventually in the new Trinity Centre.¬† A maze of pathways and bridges and stairs leading to shop after shop after shop.¬† It was busy but I noticed not many people had bags of shopping.¬† The recession however hasn’t seemed to curb the appetites or the pockets of the people of Leeds.¬† There were queues outside every single eaterie¬†in that shopping centre.¬† Queuing to get into a place that just sells pretzels.¬† They were being handed¬†menus in the line outside so they could make their choice the instant they eventually took a seat inside.¬† For someone who hardly ever ‘eats out’ because I’m too tightfisted¬†to justify¬†the expense¬†(unless it’s some kind of special¬†occasion), I found this sight quite nauseating.

My overall conclusion on the people-watching was that (a) I don’t wear nearly enough make-up compared with the majority¬†but (b) thankfully I do know where to draw the line when it comes to following a fashion.¬† I’m not known for my sartorial elegance but I realised long ago that Daisy Duke shorts (even with tights underneath) can only be pulled off (as it were) by the under 22’s as streetwear.¬† Clubbers¬†could get away with it for a couple of years longer.¬† (I once had favourite pair of black velvet hotpants¬†myself but it was 1992 and I was slimmer).¬† If we start wearing festivalwear in the high street, where does that leave us during festival season?

Speaking of reliving our youth, my excitement was raised¬†when I spotted a flyer in a window advertising that Grandmaster Flash was playing that very night at the Warehouse with ‘live breakdancers’ (as opposed to dead ones?).¬†
I was about to text Bman, get him to drop the childerbeast round at SB’s and get himself into town.¬† Then I as I had my phone out to take a photo to send him, I spotted that the poster was in fact a year old.


Real DJ’s use vinyl y’all.

Anyway I concluded my day release into the world beyond my bedroom by revisting my old nemesis.

The number of the beast was 508. 

How many hours have I spent what seems like a lifetime ago, sat on that bus watching the scenery, such as it is, trudge past as fast as the slow moving rush hour traffic would allow?  Too much time to think.  Introspection and retrospection are not your friends.  They taunt you.  Do not open the door to them.

It did not go unnoticed that on my initial journey into town (bus to Bradford Interchange then a train), that I had been on the move for almost an hour before the train I was on drove past where I live.

Travelling without moving. 

Continually going yet not actually getting any further away. 

Surely a metaphor right there!

I think what’s required here is an undignified night out (Out Out) with the kind of friends who could make the Hangover’s Wolfpack look like amateurs!¬† It’s been a long time since I get fucked up and woke up thinking “Crikey what happened there then?”

Anyone game?


Neigh neigh & thrice neigh

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WARNING:   This post contains a picture of Mick Hucknall


I appreciate that I’m behind by a week but I’ve been busy, double busy in fact, being assessed to see if I’m capable & qualified to do a job I’m already doing (and that).¬†¬† And of course it snowed in the UK which naturally means that the entire country, the working day and general ¬†ability to function comes to a complete standstill for 2 days while half the population stayed in bed watching Jeremy Kyle and eating custard creams to keep warm & the other half went out to panic buy bread and milk (& tinned peaches)!

So… I haven’t really¬†commented on the old horsemeat in the burgers farrago, but there were some corking jokes flying round the social networks.¬†

This was my favourite picture I think.

This one's my favourite

This one’s my favourite

There was also something along the lines of,¬†¬†“Horse-meat in Iceland? What about all the camel-toes spotted in Primark?” which I also found amusing.


Other recent news stories worthy of a share were these:-

Only in Norfolk! 


You go for his knees & I’ll sit on his head!

Loony Tunes


Snowball effect indeed!

and for my pregnant friends:-

Ginger gene testing

Although let’s not be hasty or scathing.¬† Red can be very glam, like my beautiful girlfriends¬† Wiggy¬†and Borobird who wear it big & red and wear it with pride!


All Hail the Jinna

All Hail the Jinna

.. but sometimes… not so much!

Good voice but still a cock!

Good voice but still a cock!

Fashion hell & advancing decrepitude

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Went to Manchester yesterday to visit my sister and niece, and to make use of the excellent retail facilities in the city centre.  This was for the purposes of looking for jubilympic themed dresses for my girls and myself, for my Jubilympic Afternoon Tea Party in June.

Easy enough to get something suitably patriotic without being too ‘Geri Halliwell’ for the childerbeast, but I couldn’t find anything that I liked (or more to the point, that I liked, which suited me and didn’t emphasise the blimpishness).

I even ventured into Primarni¬†and have to say, that even by Primarni standards this season’s collection appears to both suck and blow!¬†

WTF?   It was a showcase of utter shite! 

I like to fondle garments on rails (like you do ladies Рfeign to deny it) to see how they feel, but I was afraid to do so. With such a varied array of different man-made fibres packed in such close proximity to one another I was afraid of starting a fire!

A neon stretch chiffon vest with a giant image of a wild animal on the front?¬† No.¬† I’m good thanks!¬† I like parrots, as you well know, but harem pants decorated with hundreds of toucans?¬† I think I’ll pass.¬†

I couldn’t help but stop and take a picture of this rack of faux silk bomber jackets which wouldn’t have looked out of place somewhere in a ¬†1971 charity shop.

I’ll take one in each design please

So, empty-handed¬†we headed to my sister’s for a chillaxed¬†afternoon with sibs and RenesmeeFloGaGaella before setting off back on the tram to get the train home a few hours later.¬†

I wrote yesterday of my comfort at seeing on TV some young hopefuls in Lands End, and I was comforted¬†again on the tram when a couple of young girls took pity on a lady, many years their senior, and offered¬†her their seat.¬† Lovely.¬† You don’t see that as much as you should these days.¬† The old dear in question gracefully but thankfully declined their kind offer on the grounds that the old gimmer was ME!

The happiness at seeing that not all teenagers are moronic fuckwits, tinged with sadness that I’d hit a new low in my self-esteem.¬†I am now officially old enough for¬†girls to offer to give up their seat for me. ¬†(Or worse, because they thought I was pregnant).

Forget the new tea party frock I’ll just wrap a tartan rug around my knees & hit the sherry…

Today I  have researched orthopedic mattresses online. Thus far, not found any which are coffin-shaped or made from tartan picnic rugs.