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Evidence that those who send me junk mail should do their research

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An envelope dropped through the letterbox this week.  Here it is. In case you can't see it, the writing says, ' Important Information About Your Conservatory '.  1. We don't have a conservatory. 2. If the advertisers had peeked round the back of the house at our tiny garden, they'd have noticed that, had we added a conservatory, the lawn and the shed would have been inside it.     3. Within the envelope was information about how to maintain the conservatory we don't have. I must say, our conservatory maintenance costs are pretty manageable.  4. Also, there was information about how to buy a conservatory in case we don't have one. So, they lied.  5. There are inappropriate capitals on the message and if they knew anything about me they'd know that this would be enough to stop me buying their conservatories.  6. The writing is squeezed into the right hand corner. Do they think I will re-use this envelope for a handmade card? -  To my darling, sweet husband

Evidence that pandemics cause all kinds of communication issues

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Yesterday I visited the dentist.  Let me tell you about some of the communication issues I met. Communication #1. The email from the dentist.  Amongst the other 347 instructions regarding my consultation with the dentist about a broken tooth was this: 'Please do not use our customer toilets while you are here.'  I understand why this has to be so in the current Covid situation. But my bladder is made from cheap market-stall cling film these days, not its previous reinforced rubber. I thought back to Adam and Eve and to God saying, 'Don't eat from one particular tree,' and remembered how things turned out. I knew that as soon as I stepped over the threshold of the dentists' surgery, my bladder would want to do the one thing that was forbidden. My only option was, therefore, to visit the public conveniences in the town square once I climbed off the bus.  Communication #2  The sign in the public conveniences I washed my hands in the public conveniences using the au

Evidence that Fran should take more care in the kitchen

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A Tragedy Involving Froth I went into the kitchen, unaware of huge disaster waiting for me there. The bowl was stacked with dirty crocks, of course: the detritus of pork with apple sauce. In haste, for I was keen to watch TV,  I squirted in the Fairy recklessly which meant, before too long, the froth had frothed so frothily I knew all hope was lothed.  Imagine if the sea were all detergent - you’ll understand how things became so urgent. Huge bubbles on the ceiling and the floor and mutinously bubbling through the door and bubbles scaling walls just like Bear Grylls and on the windows and the windowsills. I wished that I had not been so remiss - I now had froth in every orifice - so, when I sneezed – a sneeze so loud and long -   a million bubbles added to the throng. Attacked by bubbles, terrified, afflicted, I waited for my death by Fairy Liquid.   The emergency services knew Fran was under there, somewhere 

Reasons why Fran can now forgive the ironing board incident

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It's nearly a month since Christmas and I still have my pile of books and notebooks from friends and family on a chair by the sofa. I can't bring myself to put them all away. There's no reason why I should. No one's dared to move the pile so that they can sit   sat on the chair for a while anyway.  But these are lovely presents: novels, books of poetry, books about poetry, delicious notebooks .... what's not to like? I haven't always received such pleasing gifts.  I was married in April 1982. At the end of that month, I turned 20. Yes, a young bride, and one who wasn't so delighted with her birthday present from her new husband.  'I've bought you an ironing board cover, too,' he said, looking pleased. 'It's the right size. I've checked.'  And indeed he had. It was prettier than the plain blue one on this picture: flowery and cheerful.  He had tried.  Nevertheless, we had words. I was compassionate, don't worry. I was his first

Evidence that Fran is acquiring technical skills

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Happy Christmas, lovely followers! I know it's not been the year any of us would have ordered (had we been asked) but here and there I have tried to offer humour, cheer and a moment's distraction. Thanks so much for being around, for reading, and for your super comments which I love until they are funnier than my own.  I hope you are able to spend some time, however limited, with family or friends. Our plans were disrupted but we're still able to see one set of family so, counting our blessings!  I've been adding videos to my Youtube channel and these two are Christmas-themed, so I offer them here for your entertainment over the holiday. The first is a poem, the second a song. Take your pick or enjoy both :)  See you in 2021 😊

Evidence that Fran is perhaps over-thinking during Zoom events

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I've been to so many Zoom events lately, often those for writers. Here are thoughts I have during them.   1. Do my nostrils look like the Wookey Hole caves to anyone else? 2. I bet I'm not the only one drinking red wine out of a tumbler to pretend it's Ribena.  3. I wish someone had warned me that when you surreptitiously check your phone, your face lights up like a beacon.  4. That woman's dog is so tiny it would do better as a sandwich filling.  5. How embarrassing that I posted the Clapping reaction just as that man told a tragic story.  6. Do my nostrils look like the Wookey Hole caves to anyone else? 7. Hey, if I tilt my head back just a little like *this*, I reduce the number of chins by a sixth. 8. Crap, no! My Chat message saying, 'I'm loving this' came up just as that lady was describing her latest rejection from a publisher.  9. If I turn my camera off, I could eat this Snickers bar then claim technical problems.  10. Do my nostrils look like the W

Reasons why Fran is desperately in search of earbuds

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My try-to-get-fitter walk in the fields today was a silent one. I usually listen to the radio through earphones but have lost one of the soft earbuds and nothing spoils a walk more than having hard plastic nudging up against your fragile tympanic membrane. The BBC's  'Woman's Hour' is a brilliant programme but loyalty has limits.  It was disconcerting, walking in silence. Listening to radio distracts from the disturbing reality that my legs are propelling me in forward motion because, if I think too hard about this, I frighten myself.  Today, while walking, I had to listen to my own thoughts.  And now I've listened to my own thoughts, I remember why I like radio better. The inside of my head is like a wastepaper basket.   Be grateful that I only offer you a brief excerpt.  Oh, look, that bird is - / Where did I put that mark scheme. I'll need it for - / My shoes are getting muddier./ Maybe mash with the fish tonight / really muddy / The trees are definitely more