I Wish I’d Looked After My Bum

The following can be blamed on one Brian Hughes from http://wyreantiquarian.wordpress.com/2013/07/28/dominoes/ .

Mention of Pam Ayres had me repeating the only line I could remember, ‘I wish I’d looked after my teeth’.

In an effort to remove the offending refrain from my mind for the rest of the day, I penned this little ditty. I hope that it not only obliterates the previous phrase but succeeds in acting as a subliminal message to my ego and activates the necessary steps. I doubt it. But, it’s worth a try.


Someone once told me

A bum should be pert,

Defined, with muscle, to boot.

A well-toned ass

From severe work-outs,

Observed, as a bit of a beaut.


Alas, to say, my bot is too big.

It’s full and fulsome and there.

It’s never been different,

I don’t do enough,

It’s too often sat in a chair.


My teeth are ok,

My eyes are quite fine,

I work on trimming my tum,

But, arse is forsaken,

It’s wobbled and shaken.

I wish I’d looked after my bum.


Blame him. See above.



The title of this piece reflects the fact that I hate the actual word, bitch. It is banned from use in my house. To circumvent this ban, my eldest daughter took to using the titled form when wishing to express her annoyance at a particular person or an occasion of bitchiness. Despite my profligate use of the word below, I still hate it and the ban will not be lifted any time soon, if ever.

Bitches are often cunningly disguised. Their ability to mutate to surroundings and friendship groupings may even leave you perplexed as to whether you’re dealing with a genuine bitch or one whom you have misjudged.

Time usually reveals a bitch’s true colours and once they are revealed in their shades of puce, their vile nature may be observed.

An inability to be loyal to anyone, male or female, is a major characteristic of a bitch.

If you have had the unfortunate experience of confiding in a bitch, you can expect repercussions. While smiling sweetly at you, as you disclose personal matters, she will turn her second face towards others of her ilk and relate all that has been said, with malicious humour. Not forgetting, of course, to embellish it all with cruelty.

Should this happen once – that’s it. No second chances. She’s a bitch. Drop her like the proverbial hot potato.

This is a fortunate occurrence, strangely enough. It prevents you from delving into a deeper relationship, thereby negating the wasting of valuable time and energy on someone whose main purpose in life is to swim in muck and throw it.

A lucky escape then.

Some other bitches are a little harder to detect. Their chameleon-like qualities are unrivalled in the animal kingdom – outwith the chameleon and other self-camouflaging creatures, of course.

But, I digress.

These bitches ingratiate themselves into relationships with flattery and false smiles. They lovingly stroke the ego of men while screwing them every which way from here to Sunday.  When the harpy within is revealed this is an awesome and frightening sight to behold.

Vitriole may spew forth from the orifice in her distorted face, known by others as a mouth, but observed on her, as a sewage pipe of magnificent proportions. No one is exempt from the deluge of filth as the dam bursts when this bitch is in full-flow.

Every hate-filled experience in her life will be manifest in the way she pours scorn on those who once loved her before her character exploded from her chest in an alienesque manner.

Cessation of all communication is not only desirable but absolutely necessary to regain dignity and harmony in life.

Should you work with someone like this – change jobs. Really. They will not change and your life could be a complete misery.

It is important to note that all females and some men, are capable of bitchiness and there are times when it is almost irresistible to indulge. The surge of effluence does, however, create and leave a foul taste in one’s mouth and therefore is to be avoided, if at all possible.

The essential difference between an occasion of bitchiness and a true bitch is that she rather likes the flavour and cultivates it at every opportunity.

A shit detector or bitch detector is not currently available to purchase anywhere in the known world, at this time. However, experience and observations should go some way to avoiding them like the plague.

There may be bitches out there who will bitch about the fact that I have omitted their own personal brand of bitchiness.

Tough! Suck on it, bitch!

Memorial to Simplicity

It’s no longer the place I grew up in. It hasn’t been for a long time.

Back then, women pushed prams along the Main Street, while stopping to chat to every other person. A neighbour, a friend, a connection.

Local shops spilled their wares onto the pavement and whitewashed prices in their windows, enticing shoppers in with a smile and a service second-to-none.

Standing beside my mum at a counter that rose high above my head, while she read from her list of requirements. Or, sometimes, she handed it over.

Staff got busy, collecting and packing from high shelves and a back-shop too impossibly small  to support the vast array on offer.

Butter was patted and wrapped in waterproof, cheese sliced with a wire stretched between two wooden handles.

Workers scurried back and forth behind the counter while I admired the niceties behind the glass, touching with fingertips and nose.

Mum paused briefly in her bletherings to tap my hands away, me guiltily looking at my fingerprints left on the glass.

‘Do you want that delivered?’ they would ask.

‘Yes,’ was often the response.

Double-checking the address was merely a courtesy.

Freddie’s cafe followed. Booths with red-vinyled seats back-to-back, filled with mums and kids. Italian ice-cream made from scratch smothered with raspberry sauce, licked till the bowl was clean. Another tsk! from mum.

At 13, I had my first part-time job in this cafe, serving with a smile and pleasure; to be part of a world where chat and good cheer were pervasive.

Those days, a memorial to simplicity.



Second Time Around

7.15a.m. First coffee and a cigarette. Pleasure grasped from my grasp by a dog with a need to be out.

Spotted wellies and a rainjacket take the collie for a walk, through wet grass and sodden ground.

An earlier rain drips from the trees while this fresh fall plays tic-tac on the leaves.

I go where I’m led, my half-awake self bidden by a dog on a lead.

Business accomplished – his relief satisfied. Mine has just begun.

Second coffee and cigarette and a house still asleep. Almost just as good.