Pissed at the harpsichord,again...

Recent activities chez nous have reminded me of an old routine by the comic Jack Dee. He believed that the merest whiff of interest in central heating systems condemned you to old-fartdom. I remember laughing along with him, nodding my head in agreement, howling at the whole loser-ness of anyone over the age of forty. Central heating? All these people needed was a good shag and a bifta…that’d warm them up a bit.

So anyway….as snow is forecast in these parts, heating and insulation have risen to the top of our agenda. Draughts are being excluded like never before. Shutters pulled tight as soon as the light fails. Leave a door open at your peril.

God, I feel old.

So, it is cheering news I bring you of The Best of British Mummy Bloggers carnival being hosted by the completely Potty Mummy. She rather ill advisedly invited me to take part, which I am more than happy to do – I’m so used to being the wheezy fat blogger at the back who never gets picked for anything…so it makes a change. Please go and take a look...I guarantee you'll find something that'll take your fancy!And if you vote for me, I’ll let you send me a fiver. Yes...surprising and frankly, worrying as it may seem...I AM a mummy. How did that happen?

There you see? I’m feeling happier already. Now I’m going to seek someone over the age of eighty with whom to discuss my chillblains. The benefits will be twofold. I will feel younger. Moaning is always a good tonic. I can sit in someone else’s warm house. And drink their wine. And eat their delicious, hearty fare, instead of my boring peanut butter sandwiches. Erm…that’s fivefold, I reckon.

In the background as I write this, my darling Spouse is watching Donald Sutherland on Arté, enthusiastically art-humping his way through Fellini’s Casanova. It’s quite disconcerting to keep looking up only to see old Don’s rather hangdog expression contorted in an approximation of sexual ecstasy. Ooh my word. Now he's wearing a lit candelabra on his head. Do be careful of singeing, mate. Spouse keeps mumbling about Sutherland’s improbable, hirsute lightbulb hairstyle. And the fact that all the actresses squeak at the point of orgasm.And there's a drunken harpsichordist...

Hanging up my suspenders...

Well…all in all, I think the hooking can be judged a success. A mild case of Bovine TB and the odd wellie scuff seem small price to pay for a bulging sac a mains and majestic pile of dry oak. The clientelle were interesting….not all scrofulous, knuckle-draggers. Now we are bathed in the warm glow of a roaring fire, and I’m feeling rightly proud of my contribution to the family coffers. I don’t earn my own money much these days…it’s a nice feeling. If anyone wants to pay me for anything…let me know…I think I could get to like this ‘being paid for stuff’ business. But not hooking, OK? I promised Spouse, no more.

I swooped down upon Blighty the other week. It was icy cold. Dark…no change there. The media was eating itself…being weirdly obsessed with messrs Ross and Brand.

Snore.

I could have done with a bit more US election coverage….the twin obsessions of the UK seemed to be the fucked-economy and the puerile spoutings of a couple of overpaid, under-funny wankers. I think I must be getting old. I don't think I have ever agreed with the Daily Mail on a subject before...it's deeply worrying.What next? A cruise to Madeira? A sherry down the Conservative club?

However, I loved the specially designed graphic the BBC news had come up with for the…der da der….’Downturn…’

Oh please. It just made me think erectile dysfunction. Something I’ve seen a fair bit of recently…being an amateur harlot. And if I hear one more reference to the ‘credit crunch’ I’ll scream. Cheapo cereals…bargain muesli…cardboard cornflakes…I know what I mean, anyway… Why can’t they just call it ‘the shit we’re in’? Or something similarly accurate. They could have a nice neat brown graphic of a steaming turd shaped like a pound sign about to be trodden in by an expensively,over-extended Jimmy Choo’d foot.

We felt compelled to attend a Guy Fawkes celebration, as this is a bit of British culture Sprog doesn’t often get the chance to witness. The bitter-sweet memories he took away of choking smoke, scorched lung and tinnitus, should ensure he won’t nag for a re-run next November. I have never been to a firework display on a beach before. The sound of rockets ricocheting off the cliffs was awesome. Man. Like cannon-fire. Bit unnerving, truth be told.

I drank a pint. And fell over. It was a pint of Tribune. I don’t know enough about beer to know if that explains or not. I queued in a very patient, British fashion for over twenty minutes for a steaming cup of pumpkin soup, only to abandon ship at the last second when the sickly-looking teen with the ladle sneezed a grey slick into the tureen. I prefer a sour cream or parsley garnish myself.

Oo! I just heard the pitter-patter of tiny rodent feet above my head. The cold weather is bringing them in. I need to sharpen up Edwina. She’s comatose by the fire, lying upside down on a stool, head lolling over one side, hind legs dangling over the other. She’s warm. Her belly is full of complimentary tucker provided by Muggins here. I suspect her vermine-exterminating instincts are buried deep right now. Her constant purr tips them off, anyway. Rations will have to be cut.

And us? Mya, Spouse and Sprog? All fine and dandy, thank you for asking. We are eating lots of clementines. This is their sweetest time. No scurvy in this house. No siree.