Crimplene trousers and gingerbread.

I had two great Eureka moments tonight whilst buttering an oatcake.

1 – Lifehack: See this spoon?

The corner of the (empty) fag packet is shown for relative size and isn’t a weird “serving suggestion”. The presence of my foot, intruding into the bottom right of the picture and the empty HRT packet at 1 o’clock bear no relevance either, and are merely indicative of my shit photography skills.

Look at the spoon. The handles of this cutlery set (Tesco) to which this spoon belongs is perfectly cylindrical.  Its cylindricality if that’s a word and the fact that it appears to be coated in some NASA developed slippyslidy nano-material render it impossible to hold. Every damn time I use one I’m left wondering if my hand has somehow turned back to front. So, in a fantastic bit of lateral thinking; I’ve decided to launch my own diet cutlery range. Behold the diet-o-spoon! The use of the diet-o-spoon results in only half the foodstuff actually making it to the mouth of the rotund user. The tagline for this wonderful piece of entrepreneurial brilliance on my part is “There’s many a slip twixt spoon and lip with the diet-o-spoon!” I’m applying for Dragons’ Den.

My second Eureka moment – which coincidentally is NUMBER 2…

2 – Bowel trouble? Struggling to “go”? Eat dog food! Why’s no-one thought of that before? Dogs eat dog food and they appear to have NO BOWEL TROUBLES WHATSOEVER, do they? They can more or less go on command.

I’m a bloody genius.
In a sentence that’s in no way related to number 2 above, (BOOM! A triple entendre!) I’ve spent the last hour clearing up my inbox. Inspired by this wonderful blog post by my friend Eileen I decided to start with a virtual clear out, so I’m deleting like a madwoman and unsubscribing from all the emails with their tempting offers. I seem to get a lot of offers of bargain trainers. Trainers? What do I want with trainers?! I’m 54 for chrissake! I can hardly drag the wheely bin up the drive on bin night in my Clarks slippers, never mind jog or run in trainers. Uninterestingly, I remember the days when trainers were called training shoes and you whitened them with that stuff that was like a forerunner of Tippex.

I know I’m guilty of wandering down memory lane in the blog and I make no apologies for that, so piss off and read somebody else’s blog. I care not for your negativity. Talking about training shoes has reminded me of the time in Home Economics when we had the How to Wash Clothes week and we were instructed to bring in a pair of jeans for washing. I did think that was a queer request at the time but I did as instructed and took in my brother’s Levis. Imagine my surprise then when literally no-one else in the class took jeans? They took ordinary trousers! Made of Crimplene or some other popular seventies fabric that resisted water anyway and only took five minutes to dry!  I’m sure my brother’s Levis, were that they were alive today, would still be wet.

This memory has unnaturally segued into another memory involving Home Economics –  How to Make Gingerbread week. I fancy that they were preparing us girls for married life which as we all know would involve nothing but copious amounts of Crimplene trouser washing and gingerbread making for our husbands, whether they liked it or not. I accidentally made a gingerbread of biblical proportions which I ate on the way home and was  – to quote my granny – ‘skittered off the face of the earth’ and off school for a week. I still can’t look gingerbread in the face.

PS – I’ve accidentally caught an episode of Eastenders where a strange boy seems to have battered his mother (?) to death with a hockey stick. I’d throw the book at him. Or I’d sentence him to ten years hard labour – crimplene trouser washing and gingerbread eating.


Shirt-dress Russian roulette.

Oh! While I’m here I must do my public duty and tell everyone about my phone bill fandango. I never check my phone bill – preferring to bury my head in the sand over such fiscal matters – but earlier this week I phoned EE to upgrade my phone and they pointed out that I’d been charged £1 a week since May 2014 for some “digital service” or other. I didn’t make too much of it on the phone in case it was something embarrassing or indeed dodgy which would of course have been something I’d clicked inadvertently,  or under the guise of “research”…

It turns out that some shyster games provider had been, unbeknownst to me, fleecing me for two years to the tune of £104! EE were very good about it and furnished me with a phone number to cancel this so-called subscription. I stabbed angrily at the keypad and eventually got through to an automated service which probably costs £100 a minute. I got to the bit where you have to bark CANCEL. CANCEL. CAAAANCELLLL! down the phone like a loony and then waited for what seemed like an eternity until the automated voice reluctantly conceded that I’d now been unsubscribed.

Of course this is all well and good but there remained the problem of the £104 of my money they’d pilfered. I emailed the bastards and a volley of emails ensued which included my use of phrases like “I’m 54; what would I want with a subscription to online games?” and “…underhand marketing tactics” and made some empty threats about what I’d do if I didn’t receive a full refund within 24 hours good day to you sire which I like to think scared them into a refund. Of £3.92. Quite how they arrived at this frankly arbitrary sum is beyond my ken, so I declined their generous offer. After another couple of volleys it was game, set and match to me, kinda. They offered me £59 and I grudgingly accepted because well that’s about the price of a pair of shoes, right? I’m no fool. The thing is, I never know how to behave when a hostile situation is resolved to the satisfaction of both parties, but I think this look sums it up nicely:

While my tomahawk runneth red, I took it upon myself to email the church next door about the Wednesday night mass illegal u-turn manoeuvre that takes place on the road right outside my door which is clearly part of a cycle route so for cyclists and pedestrians only. I spend my Wednesday evenings twitching the Venetian blinds to catch the buggers in flagrante, as it were.

So, fired up from the run-in with the hustlers at B!Game, I spent an hour composing an unnecessarily formal  – bordering on Shakespearean – email, which is a strange mixture of old and new, verily. It seems to have been resolved satisfactorily, and neighbourly harmony has been restored.

But I’ll be watching. Don’t think I won’t.

PS Check your phone number here to see if you too are being fleeced by the buggers at B!Game.

PPS I didn’t buy shoes with the money; I bought a denim frock which albeit rather snug, is quite flattering. I try to avoid button-up clothing after the accidental Judy Finnigan I once performed while gallumphing up the Loreburne Centre one busy lunchtime whilst wearing a shirt with straining buttons so I’ll be playing shirt-dress roulette every time I wear the new frock, but hey ho, you only live once as far as I know.

Judy; then and now.

(Pictures courtesy of some shady tabloid. They can sue me if they like. I’ve nae money. I’ve even spent my 59 quid refund).

Sausages are not the only fruit. 

This blog title popped into my head and paraphrases Jeanette Winterson. It bears no relation to the content of this post other than I casually mention sausages once. 

Most of what follows was drafted last weekend, as is customary round these parts.  Well, my parts, to be specific, but please don’t dwell on my parts on a Saturday night when you’re enjoying Eurovision or whatever. Nobody needs a vision of my parts. Partsovision, if you will. Anyway, read on, if you like reading week old shite. 


Oh christ. I’m sitting here frowning at my laptop in full view of passers-by. I’m meant to be starting this bloody assessment putting the finishing touches to an assessment but had the urge to blog. I’m hoping Mrs ‘Baps turns into the drive any moment now and goes “aww look at her with her massive clever brain beavering away on her assessment”, when in reality I’m ogling overpriced mascara on the Clarins website. 

You didn’t see me, right? Actually she’ll be pleased when she gets here because I’ve sausages on the go, which isn’t a euphemism. She enjoys a sausage, does Mrs Baps. 

Giddy at the thought of pay day, I spent an hour of insomnia last night looking at and coveting ridiculously expensive beauty products I can’t afford and don’t need, including a contouring kit with bronzer and shimmery glittery highlighter, neither of which I would know what to do with. Contouring is a dark art like threading a needle when you’re over 40, or knowing where to use a semicolon. I didn’t buy it thankfully, mainly because you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. Which would be a great name for a beauty salon – The Sow’s Ear. Or maybe for a hipster butcher shop, would that that were a thing. 
So I woke up this morning feeling under the weather, having discovered a new ailment, no doubt another symptom of my advancing years. I can’t lie on my left side in bed due to aches and pains. It’s a real bummer because that’s the side I lie on with the iPad propped up on the bedside cabinet watching Mad Men and eating toast. 

I’ve been thinking it might be a good idea for the NHS to have pretend doctors in GP Surgeries.  Kid-on doctors* Fake doctors. Faux doctors. You know, the kind of doctor that would appease idiots like me who have constant ailments that need ‘looked at’ by a professional.  A kid-on doctor who would just give you a cuddle or  prescribe a boxset binge and a family bag of Maltesers. Or prescribe a fag at the back door and to hell with the naysayers. 

I fancy that the phone call would go thus:

Ring ring

“Hello it’s Li…”

“Hello Lindsey. What can we do for you today?”

“I need to see the doctor. Have you any appointments today”

Receptionist places hand over phone, and  – sotto voce- informs the doctor:

“That’s Lindsey on the phone being all nicey-nicey again”

Real doctor: “What’s wrong with her now for chrissake?”

Receptionist: “Fuck knows. Fuck all probably. Will I put her in with the SPECIAL DOCTOR?”


Barbara, sighing: “Aye pencil her in for 5 o’clock. I’m sick of this. I’m only on Season 2 of Grey’s Anatomy and chapter 2 of Gynaecology for Dummies. I haven’t even covered that thing where you hit the sweet spot in somebody’s knee with a tiny hammer and their leg shoots up”

Doctor: “Don’t need your life story. Can you see this idiot or not?”

“Aye okay. I’ll fetch ma Marigolds”

“Oh I don’t think you’ll need them. Sounds like a ‘pants-on’ job”

“Well thank the good Lord Harry for that. I’ve mince in the slow cooker for ma tea”

Receptionist – looking perplexed at significance of mince in slow cooker: “Righto Lindsey that’s you in with Dr Barbara at 5”

And so on and so forth. And as “Barbara” has been comedy-cast as a cleaner in this fantasy – let me make myself clear: I’m not knocking cleaning as a profession, before somebody gets uppity and reports me to the Daily Mail or whatever. I’m just jealous of anybody who can clean. I boak if there’s a hair on the dish sponge, which happens more often than you’d think round my gaff. 


*For the benefit of our non-Scottish readers and other foreign friends who struggle to understand my native Dumfries ‘patois’; “kid-on” means pretend. 

Enjoy the remainder of your Saturday evening round your parts.