Just one last thing and I know it's terrible and I thank God it hasn't happened in Eastbourne etc but one thing that has struck me about the holiday makers I've seen fleeing Thailand is that they are all a bit common. Is Phuket the new Benidorm?
I'm on a bit of break myself at the moment so posting will be a bit patchy...just aswell given the sensitive nature of the last comment...I will ofcourse be making a donation to the relief fund.
Chestnuts roasting on an open fire,
I yelled out with pleasure this morning whilst watching the GMTV weather girl throw all caution to the wind to insure me that it is going to be a white Christmas. I nearly splattered my porridge onto the wall such was my delight.
Something that I have always pondered. What happens to the people on the front of Mills & Boon novels? Do they ever 'make it'in the big time? Do they go on to bigger and better things? Or are they forever known as the Mills & Boon girl? Much worse, I suppose, are the models who get a gig doing the cover of a novel which goes on to sell squillions, especially those black covered thrillers with the gold embossed writing. They're buggered. The woman surely gets spotted at the checkout as the poor lass who was bound and gagged and kept alive in a Sherman tank by a derranged psychopath, with nothing but a packet of maltesers to munch on.No, best stay away from book jackets if you want success in showbiz, go down the usual route of chumming up with a rich producer. Personally the limelight has never appealed to me so I could quite happily pose for romantic novels, I think I have a certain appeal....my hair has always been a feature.
The ladyfriend and I, in an act of seasonal charity, went to Stokenchurch on Sunday to the Dog Rescue home for unwanted dogs. They run a thing there where you can turn up at an allocated hour and take one of their dogs for a walk. I've always wanted to do it and as the Ladyfriend does what's she's told so we went along. We filled out the necessary forms and then waited in the courtyard for our dog to come along. Huge Alsations, Rottweillers and Labradors came out, they all jumped up at the volunteer walker in excitement. "Goodness" I thought, perhaps we had bitten off more than we could chew!
Then our number was called out and this little ball of cotton wool with legs came tearing around the corner. His name is Pippin, he doesn't like men and we were not to touch his belly, no matter how tempting it was. The poor thing had already been re-homed twice but was back in the slammer for bad behaviour. He was fabulous, the first thing he did was roll over on his back and produce his tummy. When he'd had enough of the walk he sat down then ran back to the home. I think he wanted to watch EastEnders because he wouldn't stop for anyone, not even a lamp post.
To Earls Court on Saturday to see Morrissey. It was my first opportunity to see the man who graced every inch of my bedroom wall in my youth - even on the light switch. I must say the years have been kind to him. I don't know that I would be quite so keen to have a twenty foot screen show pictures of my movements to the people in the cheap seats and I consider myself a fresh young beauty.The audience were very well behaved, mind you, most of them turned up in MPV's and Volvos. Queues were orderley and there was no shoving and pushing to my relief. I've gone off concerts these days, I find them rather loud - thankfully, my ears have not yet recovered from Easy Jet so I found the volume quite comfortable.
Morrissey was brilliant, he sang lots of old Smiths songs and I was thrilled. There were a few dull bits as the new LP is a bit lost on me. I've put this down to my flirtation with the right but I dare say I am not alone - I should imagine there were a goodly sprinkle of like minded individuals bobbing up and down to "Shoplifters of the world unite" singing along, but in the back of their minds was how they were going to decorate the sitting room in their second home in Hampshire.
I stood there thinking of little Lola and how she would have loved it. I regressed into a fifteen year old depressive, sitting in her bedroom with a slim volume of Blake's verse listening to Meat is Murder with a cup of tea and a frown on her face. Sadly she is lost now, under layers of skin and years of compliance and, like the Titanic laying on the seabed, I shall never be able to pull her back.
It seems my little meteorite isn't so, I have just received this email back from the Astronomical Society:
Finds of meteorites are exceedingly rare, especially in the wet
(corrosive!) climate of the British Isles. Most discoveries of meteorites which have been lying on the surface come from arid regions of the world - the Nullabor Plain in Australia and the Sahara desert are good sources, along wth the ice-ablation regions in Antarctica.
Sorry I have to reply in the negative as to whether the object is a meteorite, but I hope that you'll still find it an interesting souvenir of your stroll on Eastbourne beach!
Best wishes,
Neil Bone
Director, British Astronomical Association Meteor Section
I also got Nigella's book "Feast" which, like the girl herself, is large, chunky and beautiful photographed. I look forward to doing bang bang turkey this Christmas.
A call from the ladyfriend this morning has confirmed my suspicion that a Pheasant has landed in the garden. I heard its distinctive voice whilst in the bath this morning. I ran to a window awash with steam but couldn't see a thing and went back to my strip wash. The ladyfriend however, now has it in her sights so it looks like game for the table afterall!
Another thought I had came to me as I heard the birds sing their timeless tune. I noted how it never changes, though the centuries pass, wars, plague, famine and teenybopper pin-ups come and go, the birds still sing the same tune at the same time. Infact, the world spins, the sun and the moon do their thing and the birds join in - there is nothing inbetween. There is nothing here but a blackhole of time.
Christmas tree will be going up on Friday, I dare say the garden centres will be swarming with snotty kids dressed like prostitutes. I am ready to embrace the season and therefore will pay no heed. Children terrify me these days, I feel vunerable in their presence. Talking of presents, Lola turns 34 on Sunday, God bless my jaded soul.
Last night the ladyfriend and I watched our favourite production of Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol". It was infact the musical version which, for the benefit of the Americans no doubt, is called "Scrooge". I love it, the score is fabulous. I will have to get a copy of it on DVD as the VHS is becoming rather 'Victorian' in quality! I have just learned that Tiny Tim, Bob Cratchit's ailing son , suffered from a kidney disease that made his blood too acidic. Tim's symptoms would have been treated with alkaline solutions which would counteract the excess acid in his blood and recovery would be rapid....all down to Scrooge's new-found generosity.
It's the big one next week ofcourse, Morrissey at Earls Court. I dare say I won't be able to see a thing as it's standing room only and I am sure to be crushed by the tall and more able.......I'm not keen on the new album anyway.
Back in Blighty now and recovering from a mini-break of excess. We had a fabulous time in Spain mingling with the expat community. When we went to a party the English people we spoke to all came from within a spit of where we live, it was quite a coincidence. Picolo mondo.The highlight of our stay, however, was a cross dressing South Pacific evening where the ladyfriend and I went as sailors. You can see the pictures if you click here. I must warn you that all of the movies may not work as I got bored of uploading them on a dial up connection.
The picture above,by the way, is an object of mystery. I want to get on to NASA about it. The Ladyfriend found it on the beach in the summer and we think it may be a metorite. I want to have it confirmed as it sits in my dish of shells in the bedroom and if it is out of this world it may be giving off untold radiation.
The world is that much a less beautiful place today because my mate Ray has gone. Ray was the bees knees, the snap in a cracker, the top of the morning, the lid on the biscuit tin and the end of every rainbow. What a sad life indeed not to have known Ray.