Tag Archives: mother

Summon the Posh

There’s nothing more skank-ass-ho than a man walking through a park at 8am wearing a tuxedo. And it’s not like I didn’t take every precaution to prevent this from happening. I left the Christmas Party at a reasonable time, caught the train, cranked up my headphones to drown out two Gen Y girls who were engaged in a competition to see who could be the least socially aware (‘I’m such a free-spirit that men can’t handle me…’), shared some ‘Murder on the Orient Express’ type vibes with fellow passengers (‘We all did it!’), got delayed, commenced the walk home, saw my car at the midway point, knew for certain that I was way too drunk to drive, got into the passenger seat just for a minute, just to rest my eyes, just to get a bit warm and then – BAM – right in the middle of the school run and kids faces at the window and ‘Mommy, is that man dead?’ and ‘No darling, he just doesn’t have his life together’…oh, and the judgemental eyes of the upwardly mobile middle-class like I’ve stumbled into the hood and am gonna get stabbed up or barred from Waitrose or both…

I looked at the dashboard clock – too late to go home and change before dropping my car off for its MOT. An image of the queen popping out of Buckingham Palace to buy some fags was firmly ensconced in my brain as I rucked up at the garage – lop-sided tiara and foie gras stuck between her teeth. My deodorant, impressive though it was, had long-since given up the ghost and my waxy skin / stubble combo spoke only of shame.

Various overall wearing staff made no attempt to hide their amusement as I stumbled up metal steps to a port-o-cabin and heard a voice that sounded like Eartha Kitt’s demonic transgender uncle mumble that I was here to drop off the Audi.

‘Why are you in a tuxedo?’ the man asked

‘Why are you not?’

‘Fair enough.’

Then came the annoyance of him asking me complicated questions like ‘Is this your address?’ and ‘Has your phone number changed?’ and all I could think off in response was: I am an aristocrat in decline, I’m going to be spectacularly overcharged, Where can I purchase the healing elixir that is bacon? 

With both hands I reached into my coat pockets to retrieve the car keys and came upon the handles of a set of maracas (which I already knew were in there from when I got out the car, but for some reason had failed to stow in the glove box).

The man could see them (and hear them) and now I was off the chart crazy. An explanation was surely forthcoming. Should I use the real reason (So that I’ve got something to do when I’m waiting at the lights)? No, of course not:

‘It’s how we, The Elite, identify ourselves to each other in public. I usually use a French horn, but my butler’s having it polished.’

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Prolific Fibbery

On three separate occasions in August I received macabre text messages that read ‘When you get home from work, dig a grave.’ The resting places in question were for a brood of ex-battery hens who’d succumbed to a mystery ailment within days of each other. Leonard was the last one to go (poor girl). She spend her final few hours trying to dig up her friends, presumably so that she could eat them like she did everything else.

Over the coming days and weeks the usual school run of young mothers gathered outside my garden with their offspring, hoping to catch a glimpse of the silly creatures. They’d  become accustomed to the hens lolloping over to see if the children were edible (mistakenly deducing that they were not).

‘Mummy, where have the birdies gone?’ one of them was heard to enquire.

‘I don’t know sweety,’ came the reply. ‘I think maybe they’ve flown south for the winter.’

‘Don’t be silly mummy. Chickens can’t fly.’

It soon became clear that the women of Emmer Green were being bombarded and harassed. A number of them collared me by my car one morning and learnt the awful truth, but far from enlightening their kids with the circle of life they preceded to make up all manner of excuses to explain the absence. One told her brats that the hens were hibernating (?), another that they were inside watching television, and another that they had ‘gone indoors for the milking season’ – a comment that makes me fear for her little cherub’s future.IMG_0064

After a good few months I felt the burden of responsibility bearing down on me and set about getting some replacements. One rainy Sunday morning I drove over to a local farm and queued in a muddy field with two boxes stuffed with hay. At the front of the line a farmer inadvertently set off an incendiary device by asking the father of a young girl, ‘Are you here for the child exchange program – you get six hens and I get your daughter?’ Playing along the father nodded. Seeing his affirmation the girl became hysterical which, in turn, sent 100+ chickens squawking into Pandemonium.

Returning home I realised that the coop was riddled with lice and was therefore unusable. I ordered another one online and made a makeshift ‘hen den’ in the house. The hope was that it would suffice for a week or so, but a mere night into our cozy little arrangement the chickens decided to make a bid for freedom. In the morning I surveyed the damage…

But for a quirk of history ‘Pavlov’s Dog’ could’ve been known as ‘Cororan’s Cock(rel).’ Instead of the discovery that dogs become conditioned to thinking a ringing bell denotes food, you’d have the insight that chasing a chicken round the garden with a rake let’s it know that it’s not OK to take a massive dump on your pool table.

My murderous antics were interrupted by the school run. ‘YAY! The chickens are back! Where have they been?’

I wasn’t prepared and, as such, only brought my B-game. ‘They’ve…been on holiday.’

‘Where to?’


‘Did they go on the rides?’

‘…No they…get sick.’

‘Do they like…’

As I steadied myself to answer a series of other queries about what chickens may or may not like a thought occurred to me – What an awful lot of lying has gone into what is essentially a really good thing: Rescuing battery hens and letting kids see them on their way to school. As I pondered this moral quandary fate stepped in and settled the matter.

‘Mummy, why are the birdies so thin?’

‘Because the nasty man doesn’t feed them enough.’

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Know your audience…

Googling oneself…marvellous.

Yesterday’s query threw up the following from ‘The Birth Club’ at babycentre.co.uk:  

 Now I know my target demographic (alcoholic mothers) this should make marketing a whole lot easier…

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Freudian Ship / Slit / Slap / Slut…

For the last ten years or so I’ve been trying to teach my mother the following joke:

Bloke 1: Did you hear about the man who drowned in a bowl of muesli?

Bloke 2: No.

Bloke 1: Apparently he was dragged down by a strong current.

Unfortunately her brain works differently from most people and she feels compelled (mostly at  parties) to blurt out variations on ‘Did you hear about the current…oh…forget that bit…did you…something about muesli…erm…oh…etc.’

Similarly the joke ‘Two seals walk into a club,’ transmogrifies as ‘There’s a club…no, not a club – a seal cub…a seal walks into a bar…not a bar…a club.’

I’ve written before about accidentally typing ‘retards’ instead of ‘regards’ on letters to publishers. I have now superseded this with a phone pitch that went:

‘Hi, I’m ringing to enquire as to whether you’re taking on any new authors?’

‘That was a very wordy introduction. I hope you’re writing is better.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Don’t be – goodbye.’

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