Being Me

I get really excited when Autumn starts. Is this because I am a lover of nature?  Is it because I find that observing creation enriches my inner soul?  Is it because I see, in the flaming red and orange trees, beauty which inspires my heart to leap with joy? Regular readers will know that the answer to all these questions is: by 'eck as like.  (This roughly translates as 'Are you joking, because Fran is to love of nature what a vegetarian is to love of steak tartare, a rack of ribs and garlic prawns on the side') No.  The reason I get really excited is that, when next door's tree is in full autumn colour, it matches my duvet cover. Here is a picture of the type of tree in next door's garden: By 'type of tree', Fran meant 'orangey red'.  She hoped no one in the know would write and tell her that these species of trees don't exist in Britain. And here is a picture of some bedding which is very like mine. Our bedroom is at the b

Tonight I am doing some stuff at a gig in my local town.  I need confidence.  I need courage.  I need bravery. What I don't need, is for this to be the day I find out that some of my eyebrow hairs are beginning to grow in different directions.  Whereas they always used to lie fairly happily against the rest of the eyebrow as if they knew they belonged, some are now making a bid for freedom and sticking out North, East, South and West, as though looking to go backpacking. I found this out when I looked at my profile in the  mirror.  There are at least five hairs in each eyebrow which are at right angles to my face. I am going on a Google search, to see if I can find an illustration to show you what I mean.  What are the odds that I'll find no pictures of any other women in the world with this problem - just pictures of blokes - just to ram the message home that I am a Bizarre Unfortunate. See.  First picture that comes up - a man. Granted, this does make me feel a lit

I'm going to rant.  I don't rant often, not properly.  But some things have to be said.  If you are anti-ranting, look away now. On my walk to school each morning, I go down a country road for 10 minutes.  And I've begun to play a little game called 'What are the drivers doing?'  I look into each car which passes me and observe the drivers.  This game is subtitled, 'Being So Needful of Distraction from the Fact That One's Legs are Moving That One Has to Nose Into Other People's Lives for Entertainment'. I'm not going to call them 'drivers' any more, though.  I'm going to call them 'those at the wheel'.  Because MOST of them are not just driving.  They are doing other things while their car is moving, often erratically, along the road.  Here is a list of the Other Things they are doing. Other Thing Number 1: Texting On average, about 1 in 5 of the those-at-the-wheels, are texting.  Texting?  You mean, texting which invo

Did you hear about the Tesco sausage advert that got banned?  I wondered how all the piggy actors felt, having what might have been their only chance at fame dashed to pieces.  And I wrote a poem about it for Poetry 24. Perhaps the only sonnet written about sausage Percy Pig was devastated.  He'd already got his costume ready for the BAFTA award ceremony.

Well, THAT was a bit of a change of pace from the lyings-in and the book-reading of the summer holidays!  Back to school with a vengeance.  Imagine trying to race in the 100 metres against Usain Bolt when you were only used to being a member of the Weekend Country Half-Hearted Are-We-Nearly-There-Yet Ramblers' Association, and you'll get the picture. So, here I am, sitting in front of my desk at home, wondering what I can do that's purposeful, and I'm thinking, 'I know!  Why don't I tell my readers what's on my desk?!  That'll make them put their Val McDermid thriller down just so they can find out!  What jolly spiffing ideas I have!' 'What?  Fran's writing about what's on her desk?!  Suddenly, I have lost ALL desire to find out who dunnit.' What's On My Desk 1. An empty Walkers Cheese and Onion crisps packet which is annoying the hell out of me.  Oh, the crisps tasted okay, but then I had just got in from school and w

I go back to school tomorrow after a six week break.  I feel rested, refreshed, even inspired.  I am going to say those words again.  Rested.  Refreshed.  Inspired.  Remember those words, peoples. You won't hear them again from my lips until this time next year. This is also the point at which I may disappear in dramatic fashion off the blogotwitosphere, failing to follow anyone's blogs in any respectful way, tweeting only every thirteen-and-a-half days, and struggling to post coherent blog posts (whaddya mean, what's new?). Before I go, I want to ask some questions of no one in particular. 1. Who are 'Gothise' and why is half my blog traffic coming from them?  Why are they so damned interested in a post about a giraffe and another one about stretched earlobes?  If I write one about a giraffe with stretched earlobes, will the blog stats go bananas? 'You come anywhere near me with those earlobe-stretchers and your head will be in between my giant g

We're smashing, we are, in our house.  In fact, we're always smashing.  We've been smashing for years now. Here's a picture to show you in what way we are smashing...... This picture may as well have been taken in our kitchen and entitled, 'Fran's kitchen floor after a washing-up session'. Our neighbours probably think we lob china at each other every night after dinner as an alternative to watching Eastenders (and that would be perfectly understandable) but we don't.  We just Drop Stuff Very Easily.  And our kitchen floor is tiled with those freezing cold ceramic tiles that give the soles of your feet haemorrhoids.  So, nothing bounces when you drop it. Except that ..... .... no matter how many of our favourite plates, cups, glasses, bowls, saucers, casserole dishes, cafetieres, blah blah blah blahs we smash, there are some items in our kitchen that just refuse to die. Let me introduce you to Vile Glass Bowl, who lives with us (