Showing posts from March, 2010

Twelve things I have never said

1. No, no, I can only eat two squares of that at a time.  Too rich. 2. Let's not go into that stationery shop and look at coloured pens.  Let's go and buy some garden shears. 3. Pff!  Elastic waistbands?  But why? 4. No salted nuts for me, please.  Dinner's only half an hour away. 5. Go cycling after Sunday lunch?  Oh, darling, you have the BEST ideas! 6. I know, I know, the bookshelves are stuffed to perdition.  I'll get rid of some. 7. I really think we should go on a mountaineering holiday this year. 8. Go on the bus?  Boring or what ? 9. You know, I really think this plunge-neckline figure-hugging sequinned ballgown suits me.  Especially when I run. 10. Oh, how I love getting up at 6 every morning for work.  So invigorating.  And just listen to that birdsong! 11. You're right - there really are too many soft toys around the house. 12. Let's put mirrors in all the rooms.  I need more opportunities to see myself sideways.

Another adapted tale from My pen ... the horrific and terrifying tale of Frank In-Stains and the Creature who will always Ketchup with him

An icy wind whipped around the head of Captain Walton as he stood on the deck of his stranded ship, staring into the whiteness.  He hadn't seen this much white since making that washing powder advert in his failed-actor days.  It stretched for miles into the distance, like a ... like a .... helluva lot of white. Suddenly, a Dark Shape emerged as if out of the snowy wastes themselves.  It came nearer and nearer.  What could it be?  [A Dark Shape, you fool.  You just said .] As it approached, Walton saw that the Dark Shape was actually a man.  [Oh. Okay.] A man who looked exhausted, spent, drained, shattered, worn out, and, moreover, tired.  When he reached the ship, Walton hauled him onto the deck where he lay spread-eagled, for all the world like a spreaded eagle.  Do I know this man? Walton thought.  Something about him looked familiar.  He had never seen a spreaded eagle, so it couldn't have been that. It was as the man was lying there, exhausted, spent, drained [blah,

Evidence that fridge magnets can play a major role in relationship break-ups

LOVE NOTE STUCK TO FRIDGE                                                                    You're late - I've gone to Mother's. Your stew is in the dog. The Peugeot’s got a teeny dent. I’m never good in fog. Johnny's at the Youth Club and needs picking up at ten. Kate’s at that new boyfriend’s house. She didn't say 'til when. The washer in the kitchen tap is letting water through. The dog has chewed your slippers And your brand new ipad too. The cat’s had tummy trouble and has had some in your shed. The rabbit’s looking peaky and the hamster’s looking dead. The CD player goes uh-uh-uh. I can’t work out what’s up. The dishwasher won’t open and the freezer door won’t shut. A tile slid off the roof today and cracked a paving stone as well as an old lady. A lawyer said he’d phone. The bank has sent some letters. I’ve put them in the rack. We’ve had five bills from Barclaycard. One of them’s in

Why junk emails make me paranoid - at least, that's what everyone says about me

I have three emails in my 'Junk Mail' box.  (I know, I know.  You have three million.  I must have a very good filter.  Still, the ones I get are very entertaining.) Why are junk emails always so strange, often with incomplete names and subject lines and wiggly lines?  Why always from Africa, or people with strange names, or banks you've never heard of, or companies offering things completely irrelevant to your own life? The first of today's offerings is from ' Sebastio Sales Be- (the rest of the surname is missing)' and the subject line is ' Re: re '.  What does this mean?  Is it regarding regarding?  And, if so, who am I meant to be regarding?  Why does Sebastio think I need advice about who I regard and who I don't?  Has a friend whose feelings I have unknowingly hurt been in touch with Sebastio?  And, Sebbo, try a bit more imagination with your subject lines.  In fact, expect an email from me soon entitled 'Regarding subject lines'.

Er ... woss goin' on?

You may, my friends, have noticed Some changes goin' on 'Cause this blog is now Being Me And Being Miss has gone. S'a very long long story And as I hate to bore Let's leave it just at that.  I hope You'll like Me even more.

Evidence that bus stops are the place to be if there's nothing good on telly

Just in case you're Across the Pond, here's the definition of a British  queue: a long, long line, often found in supermarkets or banks or post offices or public toilets, of people who are outwardly patient ('No, no, of course, you first, go ahead, you were here before me, yes, yes, of course I don't mind') but inwardly seething ('you dare go ahead even though I've said you can or I'll batter you to death with this frozen lamb joint I just bought'). Of course, you also find queues at bus stops. Oh yes!  Another bus post! Here's a picture of a bus to celebrate two things: 1) Another bus post after a bus-less few weeks and 2) the fact that I now know how to include pictures. So, here's the story.  There's me and Husband, heading for the bus stop to go shopping last Saturday.  I'm wearing my normal Saturday wear: plunge neckline gold sequinned ballgown, pearls and a fur wrap, and he's in his usual garb of cordorouy trouse

Evidence that Tony Blair should just have got one of the kids to take the picture ...

Blurb on back cover ... In Blair's long-awaited political memoir, read about the most complicated journey of his life.  Was it his 'I caused a war' journey?  No.  Was it his 'I said I would help the poor but didn't' journey?  No.  Was it the 'I intended to improve the country's economic prospects but ... er ... forgot' journey?  No. No, the journey of his life started at the hairdresser for a trendy crop, then to the tanning salon for that 'private island' look, then to the funeral parlour to borrow the shirt, then to the specialist contact lens shop to make his blue eyes even bluer, then to the photographer, who asked him to take just one final step to the left so that he could be slightly off-centre for the book cover, then to stand on a step so that the bald patch at the top of the head wouldn't show on the picture.  (That was the photographer's story, anyway ...) Blair's journey from ineffective PM to ineffectively-ph

Just to make up for the last post ...


Another adapted fairy tale from My pen - Jack and the Beans Talk

HEALTH WARNING: THIS POST IS WELL LONG.  YOU MAY NEED A PLATE OF SANDWICHES, SLICE OF PIZZA AND A BEER OR TWO.  DON'T SAY I DIDN'T WARN YOU.  I PROMISE A HAIKU OR SOMETHING NEXT TIME ... Once upon a time, there was a boy called Jack who lived with his mother.  They were poor, so poor that they only had the choice of fifty-four channels on their cable TV network.  Yes, that poor. One day, Jack's mother, frustrated with this lack of choice, switched off the shopping channel, lobbed the remote control at Jack's head and yelled, 'Get off your backside and go and sell our cow at the market.  We need more money.' Jack was shocked.  Not because she'd suggested selling the cow that they had bought as a calf, fed, raised and nurtured like a member of the family, but because the day before he had already sold the cow to a local abattoir for a good price and updated his collection of Grand Theft Auto games with the money. But he had to pretend.  'Okay, mum