Wondertits!


Hahaa!! I came across this photograph in the archives earlier.

The idea for this shoot came about during a dinner party in which there may or may not have been alcohol involved. I said, excitedly, “Why don’t we do a shoot where you’re dressed like wonder woman and with your boobs firing jets of flame?”

I knew Lashes wouldn’t need any convincing.

” OH YES!! Let’s do it!!”

It took weeks to get the props together. A couple of days to make the bra and test the fireworks we were using for the flames. The last thing we wanted was for the flames to go awol while they were strapped to her chest. That wasn’t part of the plan at all!  It took all day to get the lighting exactly as I wanted it. An hour for make up and costume. Ten minutes practising poses so once the flames were lit she could move quickly from one pose to the next.  Fifty seconds for the actual shoot. Boofuls was stood just outside the frame with a fire extinguisher at the ready.

It was great fun and Lashes did brilliantly. You can’t tell she was almost paralysed with fear, can you? The things she does for my art!! Hahaaa. I think it’s probably time to do another fun shoot. I have a couple of ideas floating about……..

Why don’t we…..? Wait…. you’ll have to watch this space.

Wondertits!
Wondertits!

Pimpernel Ham


Boofuls went shopping one day last week while I cracked on with the decorating. Wow! Doesn’t that just make us a modern family with the roles reversed?

Well. Kind of.

He’s not a natural shopper, my Boofuls, but he does try. It’s fair to say that having climbed down off my ladder for the second time to answer a query about the shopping I was not best pleased.  I’m pretty sure I managed to disguise my feelings quite well. In the same way that Mount Everest disguises itself as a mole hill.

Terrified to ring me for a third time he bought enough fruit to keep a pack of baboons happy for a month as a nod towards my healthy eating shopping  and then the rest was man shopping.

When I say man shopping what I mean is that he doesn’t think  about shopping in terms of meals but more in terms of snacks. Tiger bread, ham, cheese, wine, pork pies and chocolate. All great stuff for a snack but hardly food creating works of culinary genius. Cleaning materials don’t even enter his consciousness but never mind, who needs a clean house anyway?

As part of his mammoth shopping session he bought a pack of  nice ham. Douggie the doggie is quite partial to nice ham so I’ve taken to wrapping his tablets in it to make the dosing procedure so much easier than when he chews the capsule and ends up with a mouth full of vile tasting powder which then makes him drool and vom all over my lounge carpet. Wrap it in ham and it’s down without touching the sides. Easy.

Every time I went into the fridge for this ham I couldn’t find it. I’d look on the top shelf where it was supposed to be but nope, no sign of it.  I’d search round the whole fridge I’d find it under something else. I’d put it back in it’s proper place only to find it missing again next time I wanted it. It seemed to have a new hiding place every time.

“What kind of ham is that exactly, Boofuls?”

“I don’t know, why?”

“I think it must be pimpernel ham because I seek it here, I seek it there I seek that ham just everywhere. It’s got more hiding places than the Scarlet Pimpernel!”

 

In other news…..


The complaints department took a call the other day. “Your blog is making me really sad lately. Can’t you do a happy post like you used to?” Ummm……no. Nothing cheery here. Move on along now.

My sense of humour, fun, tolerance and any kind of joie de vivre seems to have fooked right off.

On the bright side – when the going gets tough, the tough start decorating. My living room and bathroom now have lovely new wallpaper so I suppose every cloud has a silver lining. So, what’s this other news then? Well, this happened weeks ago, actually but I haven’t had the metal strength to be bothered to tell you about it. It’s a funny thing, mental strength. You wouldn’t think you’d need it just to speak but you really do – as I’ve discovered. I can be sitting in the car with Boofuls and suddenly think, ‘Oh. I didn’t tell Boofuls that’ but it just takes too much effort to drag the words from my brain and out of my mouth so I don’t bother. So instead I’ll sit there quietly while a million thoughts whizz round in my brain trying to get out.

What? Oh yeah, what happened weeks ago….sorry, I got distracted.

Batty got a guide dog!  Among one of the youngest to get one in this country, it has given her a new independence. Now she can get herself to and from school etc. What a shame the dickheads at school have decided to bully her because they can’t treat the dog like a pet and play with it. They don’t seem to understand it’s a working dog.

On the subject of dogs. Douggie the doggie has been to see the vet after his major trauma in Wales. The vet has decided to put him onto phenobarbital, a drug I’ve been trying to avoid because of the long term health implications of it. I hate what it’s doing to him. The light has gone out of his eyes and he’s turned into an anxious, whiny, listless dog with flashes of madness and manic behaviour in between. He’s spent most of this week actually sitting on my knee and at 5 stone that’s not the most comfortable thing. If he’s not on my knee then he’s trying to get on it. Poor little sod has no idea what’s going on, he just knows he feels terrible. I hope it’s true what they say and that these side effects will only last for a few weeks because it’s heartbreaking to watch him.

Right. I’ve spent the last ten minutes starting at my screen and wondering what else is new this week. Nothing at all you’d want to hear about, it’s been traumas and dramas all the way so I’ll go now and take the dog out.

A few photos


Here are a few photos from our ill fated trip to wales last weekend.

At a cost of over £300 by the time we’d totted up the hotel including the extra night we didn’t stay for, the petrol, competition fees for the competition we ended up not competing in, et. etc.  these are working out at some damned expensive phone photos. Enjoy.

I did a good deed


Last week I was forced to go out for a walk with my bezzie. She was  thinking was that she’d cheer me up with her chatter. It didn’t quite work like that but we walked a long way.

Halfway through our walk we stopped at a country cafe for a *ahem* comfort stop. I popped in to use the facilities first leaving bezzie holding Douggie the doggie.

When I got back I noticed her talking to a woman. Nothing unusual in that. If bezzie was stood at a bus stop she’d be talking to people. If there was no one there she’d talk to the bus stop.

I’d already noticed this woman as we approached the cafe.  She seemed to be awfully smiley.  I assumed, correctly as it turned out, she was a fan of golden retrievers. Little did I know.

“This lady just asked me if this is THE douggie from the rescue site?”

“Yes he is.”

The woman’s face lit up. “Really? The famous Douggie? My whole family are fans of his. Every time you post some new photos of him we all come and have a look. We love hearing about his exploits. We loved his two tone dog photos.”

Well, fancy that. Douggie has a fan club.

It turned out that the woman had lost her own golden retriever some time ago and in order to get a ‘goldie fix’ she lurked on the message boards of the golden retriever rescue site.

We chatted for a while as bezzie popped of to the facilities. It was obvious that she missed her goldie greatly.

“Would you not consider getting a rescue goldie?” I asked her.

Although she would have loved to, she didn’t think it fair on her other, fairly elderly dog. I suggested to her that when the time was right she could maybe consider an older dog that wouldn’t be as difficult to integrate into the family. I know at the rescue it is the golden oldies that they really struggle to rehome.

Well, blow me down, she popped up on the message boards last night. After our conversation last week she must have immediately contacted the rescue centre and she’s adopted a fifteen  year old goldie so he can live out the days he has left in a comfortable and loving home.

Isn’t that just bloody fantastic news? I’m so pleased we had our serendipitous meeting.

How nice to have good news.

 

 

Beaten


Feel free to move on right along without reading this post dedicated to self pity and misery. To be honest, it’s not really for your benefit so I’m not even going to try and make it upbeat, grammatically correct or well written. It’s just a self indulgent misery fest.

Really it’s more of an aide memoir so I can look back in a year or two and laugh and laugh at the tough times* she said drily*

That’s it. I’m down. After finding it harder and harder to get up after every punch I’ve had thrown at me recently, the universe has finally beaten me. I am now that woman walking along the street with eyes downcast, shoulders slumped, looking like she’s had the spirit beaten out of her.  You know you’ve had enough when you think you’re washing your hair and suddenly realise you’ve been standing in the shower holding your head and crying for the last five minutes.

Regular readers know that Boofuls and I have become professional funeral goers this year. The death roll is now well into double figures and it saddens me that there have been so many deaths this year that I can’t even instantly recall who they all are.

It started with a friend of over forty years, then it was Boofuls’ brother, followed by my cousin, a few friends and acquaintances, our lovely dance teacher of over fifteen years  and the most recent, my brother.  In another few days/weeks Boofuls’ best man at our wedding will lose his wife.

Our gorgeous daughter has had her own issues this year and all we can do is stand by and watch. It has broken my heart.

Seven years, oh yeah, S.E.V.E.N years after this lovely  house we live in went on the market – almost on the day the housing market crashed, it is still not sold.  Drop the price? Oh yeah, we never thought of that. We’ve dropped the price by £165,000, is that enough for you? Now we find ourselves in a position where …..never mind. Suffice to say I have never felt more like we are living on a knife edge.

I truly don’t know why it isn’t selling. It’s in a gorgeous position, it’s well maintained, it’s got land, barns and stables and planning permission for conversion.  Even now when I come home I look at it and think ‘what a lovely place we live in.’

Turning down a buyer for the business after trying so hard to find one wasn’t feasible but who would have thought all this time later we’d still be here and not in Devon?  Retirement was great when I thought it was only for a couple of months. If we don’t sell the house  soon I’ll have to get a job working on a checkout in Netto.

Then to cap it all, Boofuls, me and Douggie set off to Wales for a heel work competition this weekend. We checked into a lovely hotel yesterday, met some friends who were competing as well and had a great time, we were really starting to relax and unwind and I realised I was actually having fun for the first time in, well, ages.

Until….Douggie woke us up to four o’clock this morning to let us know he was going to have  a seizure. He paced the floor, whined, barked, let out an almighty howl and eventually jumped onto the bed. The trouble with having a five stone dog is that if he decided that’s where he’s going to have his seizure, that’s where he’ll have it and there ain’t nothing to be done about it.  So, he had his seizure on the hotel  bed, weeing all over it as he did it.

Then, just as he began to come round from his seizure he went straight into another seizure and then another. I really thought he had gone into status epilepticus and we were going to lose him. It was terrifying.  When he eventually came round he was hyperventilating and very distressed. He needed to be cooled down and calmed down. FAST.

The other hotel guests must have thought there was a major domestic going on as they heard all the scuffling going on in our room.  Douggie also managed to knock everything off the bedside table,  when he fell off the bed, what a commotion.

We spent the next hour and a half walking a whining, barking, distressed dog round a hotel car park in the early hours of the morning  in the pouring rain while Boofuls tried to get hold of a vet.

Curtains twitched, lights went on and voices were heard. Great. We’ve woken the whole hotel.

When the staff arrived for duty around 6.30 a.m. I explained and apologised profusely to the hotel management about the whole sorry incident, obviously paying for the extra night we decided not to stay for and ensuring that they checked the room  before we left so we could pay for anything Douggie may have damaged. Luckily, I’d had the presence of mind to strip the bed after he weed on it so the mattress was ok, that would have been pricey.

Needless to say we didn’t compete. Shame, his rehearsal the day before was brilliant. Damn me for saying to Boofuls, “I hope this isn’t a  case of good dress rehearsal, bad performance”, or as it turned out, no performance.

Instead we have come home.  Douggie has been restless and difficult.  Boofuls and I are both punch drunk, physically and mentally at the end of our tether.

If you believe in karma then Boofuls and I  must have been some proper bad bastards in a previous life. I know life isn’t a bed of roses but come on, this is way beyond a joke now.

 

 

 

 

Light the blue touch paper and stand well back


It’s fair to say that I’m not a woman best known for my patience.  Neither do I tolerate fools easily. In fact, when they gave out tolerance and patience I’m not even sure I was in the queue.

Bearing in mind recent events, my tolerance level has dropped even lower; to that of a wasp suffering PMT on a low bio rhythm day.

Thinking that I’d feel better if I blew off some energy  instead of moping around and feeling miserable I went to our local leisure centre for the geriatrics zumba class. You can’t beat zumba for getting the heart thumping, the hips wiggling and the endorphins pumping.

Zumba = energy, latin music, elements of dance, perfect work out.

Now there aren’t  many  advantages to being over fifty but cheap entrance to the leisure centre fitness classes is one of them. I stood around in my lycra pants and pristine white, brand spanking new trainers and waited with anticipation  for the instructor to arrive and to getting stuck in to some hard core zumba.

The instructor walked in.

Uh? That’s not who I was expecting.

The usual trainer completely ignores the fact that she has a group with a combined age of about 3000 in front of her and carries out a normal zumba class.  By the time it’s finished you think you’re going to die. I like that.

Today’s trainer walked in and spoke to us with that patronising, head tilted to one side, high pitched and slow voice that made me think she thought we were thick in the head as well as thick in the waist. “We’ll start with some warm ups. Rooollllllllll those shoulders. There we are. Doesn’t that feel better?”

I felt my blood starting to boil. Get to the zumba, woman.

Her music was straight from the ’80’s – the 1880’s. Ok, slight exaggeration but it was rubbish. Lilting, gentle and yawn inducing. Where’s my latin music?

” Now then, lift those arms and claaaap. There we go.”

It started to dawn on me that there was no zumba imminent. I hate aerobics.

“Slide and claaaaap. Rest if you need to or hold on to the wall.”

Fer fudge sake!!

I tried, to enjoy it I really did.  All the time I was swinging my arms gently from side to side and feeling like a dweeb I was thinking, don’t be churlish, it’s all exercise, it’s all good, finish the class, don’t be rude, you can’t just leave.

Fudge it. I left.

 

 

A Big Bad Policeman?


Lesley:

Read this. Loved it. Boofuls and I have friends who are in the police or prison service. They rarely talk about their work. I salute all you over worked and underpaid public sector workers who keep us safe and well.

Originally posted on mountainninja999:

I started this blog sometime last year in an effort to champion my cause of openness and honesty between Police and the public we serve.

My audience is a modest one (as proved by my stats on WordPress) but I am proud of the general reception each of my posts receives. Basically, if I get my message out to one new person with each post then I see it as a success. I never started this, nor my anonymous account on Twitter, for ‘followers’ because my ego doesn’t need that – as Mrs Ninja reminds me on occasion. I started the blog because I’m equally proud of the job I do and frustrated at the way society often views us.

All coppers are bas*%#ds aren’t they?
We’re pigs.
Filth.
Scum.
Bullies.
Corrupt.
Dishonest.

All words regularly aimed at us which have become socially acceptable. Woe betide any cop who were…

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