Showing posts from October, 2013

Evidence that drugs have been a big part of Fran's life this week

I've found myself talking about drugs twice in the last couple of days. Only one of the incidents was intentional, and that wasn't the one that happened yesterday, when I innocently informed a class of sixth formers that 'I once won a typing competition on speed .'  They dissolved into laughter, leaving me as red as Karl Marx. If you're a friend of mine on Facebook, you'll already have heard that story.  If you follow me on Twitter too you'll have heard it twice.  If you follow me down the street, you'll perhaps do what an old lady did in my Granny's care home the other day and comment loudly on the size of my bottom.  As Miranda Hart would say .... (Fran was pleased to find this picture at last, especially as googling 'Rude' had resulted in some images she hadn't expected.) Anyway, back to my sixth form class, which has a slightly more supportive atmosphere than the care home, but not much.  I tried to turn the mega-gaffe i

Evidence that after watching Downton, Fran gets all aspirational

I am just a little teeny-weeny bit addicted to Downton Abbey and have been thinking about what it would be like to swap my life for theirs .... I want to be a toff I want to be a toff in Downton Abbey. I want to taste life in the upper class. I want to dress for dinner and eat eight course meals.  One gets so fed up with printing vouchers off for Pizza Hut and Prezzo. I’d wear silken knickers if in the upper class though I’d need a mile of silk to stretch around my ... nether regions.  I want to go to balls in golden slippers. I want to sweep across a polished floor. I want to wear white gloves. I want to waltz, and drink champagne instead of watching Strictly with some hotted up chow mein. I'd dance ‘till dawn just sweeping across that polished floor and with Deep Heat on my knees, I’d manage it, I’m sure. I want a chauffeur to say ‘Ma’am’ and take me to Harrods in a newly-polished Rolls. He’d wait outside the store and sneer at every traff

Evidence that being turned to stone can sometimes work to one's advantage, so go think on it, Medusa

I am writing this post to distract myself from fear.  Tonight, I'm appearing at a charity gig and have to make people laugh for half an hour or more.  When these things go well, it's brilliant.  When, after the first couple of minutes, people have only tittered, or, much, much worse, yawned like a canyon, there's a loud voice in my ear going, 'Get off the stage, you eejit.  Whatever made you think you could get up there in the first place?  Either admit defeat and leave, or take your clothes off and secure the laughs that way.'  I'm always telling the kids at school that confidence is about pretending.  Most adults, I say, who look supremely confident, in whatever field, are having to battle doubts.  Anyone in the public eye, on a large or small scale, has to find out for themselves how to appear calm even when the bowels are grinding like the innards of Vesuvius and the mouth is as dry as a drunk's on a Sunday morning. If only I would take my own advice

Reasons why Fran can get a 90,000 word novel down to a haiku if she's paid enough

My first published story was in ‘Your Cat’ magazine.  (Don’t laugh … we all have to start somewhere.)  I sent the editor a 1500-word story.  She said she liked it (great!) and would publish it (fantastic!) but that I should cut it by a third and tighten up my style.  Ah.  Not so good. I loved every word of that story.  I gave birth to each one in pain and suffering, so there was NO WAY, absolutely NO WAY I was going to cut or change them.  I was determined.  I would stick to my guns.  She could forget it.  My mind was made up. Then she said she’d pay me £200 if I did the alterations.  I wavered for a whole nano-second.  U-turn Queen, that’s me, when it comes to hard cash. The editing of that heart-warming story about a couple who rediscover their love when their cat has a crisis (it was a real sick-bucket saga) taught me loads.  I hated making the changes.  I felt like a murderer, slashing and slicing away at my precious text.  I could hear those words screaming

Reasons why you should start using the word 'schbuufy' (pronounced 'sherboofy')

My last post was about hair.  You're probably wanting something different now. Okay, so I'll give you something different.  Here's a picture of a duck-billed platypus. I found that picture on Google and was just about to type, 'What a strange looking creature!  Is it a particularly furry one?' and then I realised the caption said, ' Stuffed toy duck-billed platypus'.  No wonder.  Now, I will find a picture of a real one, just in case, in the light of the above picture, you take against the poor creatures and become a duck-billed platypusist. What the hell is this?  SURELY there's not a cartoon starring a duck-billed platypus?!  Someone tell me it isn't true.  And why does it have a lacrosse racquet for a tail?  And why is it bright blue?  SO many questions! Right, still looking for a real DBP.  I got distracted a bit there.  Give me a minute. 'Oh, darling!  New slippers for my birthday!  Thank you SO much!'