As some of you may know, today we have a by-election in the home of the ceramic bog, otherwise known as Stoke Central. And Mother says she isn’t voting.
Why not, I hear you call? Is it because when faced with the choice of a twelve year old, a downright fibber, a chap named after an inanimate object or a very, very, very right wing pensioner she just can’t make her mind up? No. It’s because the local council has intimated that she doesn’t exist and has not sent her a voting card. This would be the same council who gleefully collect their council tax every month from, what we now know, is an invisible woman.
Now before everybody shouts ‘just turn up you don’t need the card’, Mother knows this but is feeling very hard done to and is protesting. Was going to say ‘voting with her feet ‘ but if she was doing that she’d be on the way to the Polling Station as we speak. Or perhaps not, as without the bloody voting card she doesn’t know where she’s got to turn up…..
Still. It’s four hours til polling closes. Plenty of time for the Chairman and Founder Member of the If You Don’t Send Me A Voting Card Then I Can’t Be Arsed Party to change her mind…….
My niece by association (well she certainly ain’t a blood relation) works for the Royal Northern College of Music. A couple of weeks ago she met Dame Patricia Routledge, the Bouquet woman with the Royal Doolton dinner service complete with periwinkles.
To say she is chuffed is a understatement. Patricia (unlike Ben Kingsley she doesn’t insist on the compulsory use of the honorific title) is a lovely lady and a very talented actor. She is also guaranteed to raise a smile from Granny with her aspirations of grandeur as ‘that Bucket Woman’.
We have a Royal Doolton service. Don’t know why. Round ‘ere, dinner is summat you have at lunchtime and you don’t usually put your sandwiches on a posh plate. You might even use a ‘hospital plate’ which is nurse speak for a bit of kitchen roll.
Saves on washing up.
We do draw the line at the milk bottle on the table though…..
Mother is watching the Baftas. She has it on delay, just so she can fast forward the boring bits where people thank their mother, father, drama teacher, milkman, probation officer, psychiatrist, Great Uncle Bulgaria, Auntie Mabel and their cat.
She has noticed that there must be a fabric shortage. Why else would Nicole Kidman have her nipples precariously covered by a few centimetres of fabric. One can only assume that it has been secured to the skin with tape, blu tack or chewing gum.
About 30 minutes in, there was another poor soul in half a dress balancing her bazookas behind a sliver of drapery. You’d think with all the money they earn, they could get the garment finished.
Now 60 minutes in, Nicole has put on a cardi. Thank goodness. Escape of the Titties has been averted…….
In the Co op today, Mother found a giant size box of Cadbury’s Fingers (or Fingres if you follow Peter Kay) which says it’s ‘perfect for sharing’.
No it bloody isn’t. It’s perfect for shoving down your cake hole in one sitting, especially if you’re pre-menstrual, post menstrual, menopausal, stressed, anxious, overworked, underpaid, tired, hyperactive or if you merely believe, as does Mother, that brown food has no calories in it…..
And don’t get me started on the family bag of Walker’s Cheese and Onion…..
So, some idiot has decided that healthcare professionals should wear a badge announcing that they’re fat. The idea behind this is to get those of us who are too friendly with a Kit Kat to desist by being shamed every time our hands gravitate towards the red wrapper and shiny covering. Activity which makes us a bit like Gollum, except his shiny was arguably more destructive to Middle Earth than a biscuit.
Mother thinks that this plan should be extended to cover other things. ‘I’m a bit of a lush’ would cover those who like a drink of an evening. ‘I’ve gambled away the kids inheritance’ speaks for itself.
As does ‘does anybody else think that Jeremy Hunt is a knobhead?’…..
Congratulations to Queen Elizabeth II who has been ruling over this country for 65 years…..
I must admit to be being a bit confused when they announced on the news that she had been on the throne for so long.
So, here’s me thinking that the ring on her buttocks would be a bugger to shift after all that time, until Mother pointed out that Queenie wasn’t necessarily stuck on the lav…..
Apparently there is a vegetable shortage caused by a weather crisis in the Mediterranean. Mother isn’t too bothered about this as she never really met a brassica that she actually liked……. Unless it was covered in cheese sauce which rather defeats the healthy objective.
Mother remembers way back in the 70s when there was a sugar shortage. Granny, whose definition of well stocked means at least six bags of Tate and Lyle, was virtually apoplectic at the instructions from Fine Fare that she could only have one bag and used to send a young Mother off to another till to obtain further rations. Ah……things haven’t changed all that much if the collection of Mr Kipling’s in Granny’s pantry is anything to go by.
Mother says that in order to buy vegetables now, one should produce proof that one is a vegetarian.
The rest of us will get by on Kit Kats………