Legging It

I’m not pregnant

I’ll never be again (just so’s you know)

Then why’s my belly so distended

(Like I’m three months gone

And my secret’s starting, now, to show)


It could be constipation

But I don’t think that’s it

If you’re at your dinner, please excuse,

For the first thing that I did, on returning home from work,

Was to take my kindle for a sit


It might be all the Revels that I ate last night

Why, oh why, I did, I do not know

Except perhaps for comfort

(That all chocolate brings)

We women ( and some men) know this is so


It could be from the BLT that I ate for lunch

Sitting in my gut and festering

Wondering why I did

(When I did not enjoy)

Exponential indigestion and thinking


It could be from the second glass of wine consumed

Unused, this while back, to tasting grape

Gurgling in my gut, with too little food,

Objecting, as tums do

And going ape


I’m thinking that it could be from the seven weans

Who’ve stretched my belly out of sync

And, as soon as I relax,

It all goes to pot

No wonder mums and dads need stronger drink


I’m tempted to suggest that I’ve been too lax

In yoga exercises and the rest

Delaying till tomorrow (what needs done today)

Of all excuses,

This one sounds the best


My tablet’s resting on a little mound

(It’s handy and I think I’m doing well)

Slurping on the red stuff

(With too little food)

Relaxing while my tummy grows and swells


Maybe I am windy, (hadn’t thought of that)

It’s never on my mind (swear on my heart)

Maybe if I squeeze

(And groan a little bit)

I’ll get a flatter tummy and new start


I’m not troubled by the swelling

(Well, maybe just a bit)

It’s awkward, as hell, in too-tight jeans

Bugger all the effort, (I paused to hunt them out)

I understand why people wear leggings


The comfort that they bring (never mind the bulge)

Explodes the myth of uncool (all that guff)

It’s either that or jammies

(And it’s way too early)

And too many folk here to go in the buff


I’m tranquil in my leggings with my pregnant pause

(Revels are waiting in the drawer)

The working week is over

(Thank god for it)

Why would any working woman want more


Yoga on the morrow

(With my fingers crossed)

(It’s not my fault, she cancelled every class)

Not worried ’bout the belly (I can cope with that)

But don’t get me started on my arse!



Svetlana reposes mysteriously

on couches and cushions of silk

observing the passage of time carefully

sipping on cocktails of milk

mixed with the blood of pilgrims processed

during visits and viced rendezvous

enlarging on life and the secret of youth

in voice laden with honey and dew

plenty of sleep from the harshness of day

a diet of liquid preserve

no more than needed, enough is enough

with some captives held in reserve

twenty or so, going on ninety-two

could be two hundred and five

Svetlana’s not telling though many have begged

and wound up not quite alive

Svetlana reposes so elegantly

batting more than her eyes

her teeth are long gone so she sips through a straw

vampire with sucker surprise

please drink your milk is the lesson she gives

the calcium’s good for your bones

your marrow, my milkshake, donated to live

now, piss off, and leave me alone

Superhero Danglers

They dangle from my ears and I just love them

Drops of silver, diamonds or gold

They turn with me and nudge my jaw or cheekbones

Make me brave, in truth, they make me bold

I’ve seen me going out without them

Forgotten in a rush and then I’m crushed

Nothing’s right, naked nightmares about them

Unlike Samson, feel I’m weaker when untrussed

Those who know me never buy me tiny

Studs that sit too tame upon my lobes

Got to dangle, got to jingle jangle

Undressed, if absent, even fully robed

I have a pair that hang right down and swing so

Towards shoulders, mucky minds, that thought of else

Those are reserved for when I must be bolder

They glitter so, I keep them as my best

What gives you confidence when you need extra

Is it clothes that make the hero out of you

Or is it something else, like shades or hairdo

I’m curious to know what others do

Superhero powers from some earrings

The dangly ones, of course, none else suffice

Maybe shouldn’t tell you of my weakness

Superman once did and then thought twice

My kryptonite is finding flat and lifeless

In a box where danglers live for epic feats

No one guesses, no one touches, locked up

My cowardly protection help me cheat

Been wearing them since Clark Kent was a no-mark

A cartoon nobody that needed strength

If he’d had earrings he could’ve worn those knickers

Underneath, where no one saw his length

If Kal-El had only listened to his granny

Like I did years ago when just a child

He’d have swapped his cape, gone in disguise with danglers

Guaranteed to subvert mild and wild

Lex Luthor might have laughed at the Boy Wonder

With the dangly bits that hung from manly ears

But, rest assured, he’d have crushed him without effort

Unworried about kryptonitic fears

I’ve told you now, so spare a thought for powers

Gifted from a granny long ago

Wear them long and swing them while you strut it

If she were here, she’d tell you, told you so

Need to go and polish superpowers

Phone Superman and put that hero wise

Tell him he can even lose the swim trunks

Let’s face it, he should welcome that surprise

If you catch me on the street without my earrings

Give me time to find a phone box near

Some struggle with my garments and, hey presto,

Knickers hanging down from round my ears

Smile!…..Oh, Va Te Faire Enculer!

I have taken some slagging this weekend. I think I might have brought much of it on myself, right enough.

Apparently, referring to David Bowie as an artiste is deemed incredibly pretentious and results in, Ooh, la, la’s and Lah de dah’s from my jokers here. Having a Glaswegian accent does not allow you to insert French, or any other language, into general conversation. I don’t care what they say. I know they all think he definitely had a certain je ne sais quoi.


The main piece of slagging actually started on Thursday and continued right through until yesterday. My own fault, as I said.

Hubs and I had to get passport photos taken (our old ones are so out of date, they’re relics). But hubs has been growing a beard. Yeah. No problem with that. His face. He can do what he likes with it. Up to a point. What he can’t do is put it near me. It started off jaggy and then just got tickly. I can’t abide being tickled. Anywhere. By anything. Hate it. I panic and scream. Even been known to cry. So no one tickles me. Under threat of death.

So, the beard. Tickling wasn’t the only problem. The beard is, was, oh, sod it, here’s what it was. https://scottishmomus.wordpress.com/2016/01/17/hair-today-gone-on-a-promise/ (And feckin’ WordPress won’t let me link normally! What is it with this place and changes?!)

Now, the beard came off. I was pleased. He should’ve been pleased too. Took fifteen years off him. We went to the photo booth in the local supermarket. Not before I’d put a fresh face on though. Wanted to look my best, didn’t I?

Why do things never quite turn out according to plan? Or be as straightforward as they should?

The instructions on the machine were quite complex.

Choose the right set of photos. Sorted.

Put money in. Done.

Check seat height. Swivel, swivel, swivel back again.

Align eyes with the magic line. Swivel some more.

Uncover your head. I don’t do hats.

Show your ears (!). I don’t know either. I thought maybe they wanted to be able to check for the presence or absence of ear lobes as a genetic identifying trait. Tucked my hair behind my ears.

No hair on the face. I’d already shaved. Kidding! Sweep hair away from forehead and tuck it in along with the side bits. Looking a bit like Hitler at his point. So tempted to do the finger moustache. Lot of face on display now.

Do not smile. No problem, this isn’t funny. ‘cept for the thought of what the  passport office would say if I sent in my Hitler impersonation.

Do not make any facial expression. Fuck! I can’t do that. When I see the corpse in front of me I know why now. You need expression on your face to look alive.

Keep your eyebrows down. Double fuck! One of mine has a life of its own.

Ready? Steady…..

…don’t smile, don’t smile, do not smile, keep your eyebrows down, look straight ahead, do not think about Hitler’s ‘tache, keep your eyes aligned, don’t look away, Do Not Smile…

…and Snap!

One very ugly, traumatised pic.

It was lucky I had my fourteen-year-old daughter with me to talk me through the process. She kept popping her head through the curtain to keep me right. You’d think she’d have been a bit more on the ball with the results, mark you. Louise takes the best selfies of all my crew. Their words. We both rejected the first one but thought the second would do. It looked okay in the reflection.

How fucking wrong we were!

I kid you not, it was the ugliest photo I’ve ever had taken. Really minging.

And I should know. I’ve had some belters.

I even kept a collection of stoaters so that I could show my kids, should I have any, for when their teenage insecurities would inevitably arise. My sister would just rip hers up. Pot ugly, rip, rip, bin. And this was in the days before we had mobile phones, so every photo in the bin was like throwing away money. Holiday batches would come back from being developed and she would rifle through them, dismissing one after and another and shredding them. Even if you were in it. And looked okay!

I must have had a premonition, way back then, that I’d be surrounded with weans. I actually recollect thinking, ‘I’ll keep this (hidden) then surprise my kids with it when they feel an ugly day is upon them. I’ll whip it out and say, ‘Look. Even your gorgeous mother had off days. I never looked like that. It’s the camera. It lies.’

I’ve never had to whip any of them out and reassure them. They’re the selfie generation. All pouts and confident smiles. And if it doesn’t turn out well? Delete.  Just like that. How was I to know, all those years ago, that mobile phones would be a thing? And that selfie would even be a word. I could have saved myself the bother. They’ve found some of my stash in the past too and just ripped the shit out of me.

Hubs got in, daughter talked him through it. First time, fine. The bastard looks younger than me. And he’s fucking eight years older. Eight and a bit. Sometimes nine.

I thought, stuff it, I don’t care.

But I did. I do. I even got slagged for being vain! Like they wouldn’t have minded? Aye, right! You look in the mirror and you think you look one way. Then you see a photo and your illusions are destroyed.

According to second daughter, there’s a pile of psycho-babble about the mirror/camera/self-perception. I understood it at the time. Just can’t remember what it was. Something about she sees a nine in the mirror but she might only be a seven. The mirror contributes value added tax via personality. The camera is a bitch. Something like that.

Anyway, I had to take both photos and forms into work to get them countersigned by one of my colleagues I’ve known for about ten years.

She actually asked me if I wanted her to certify that it looked like me. And I was consoled that at least she didn’t think it did. She kept glancing at it then at me. I’m easily appeased.

I then passed it round the staffroom so’s they could all get a good laugh. They did. Some said theirs were bad too. But I know they weren’t as Quasimodo’d as mine. I could tell by the look on their faces, as they tried to compose them into some sort of expression that didn’t say, ‘For fuck sake! What happened to you?’

My eldest son wasn’t that kind. He’s a bastard though. He said, ‘You look as if you’ve been seriously assaulted and found in a hedge at the scene of the crime.’ He is a bastard, isn’t he? Even although I had to agree with him. I looked traumatised. Like Hitler must have after, you know.

On Friday, they all gathered, for a soiree. (oops) Not just to look at my photo, obviously. But I just had to show them. I mean, I just had to.

I kept saying, ‘Sure that doesn’t look like me? Please tell me that doesn’t look like me? Am I walking about looking like that and I don’t even know? For fuck sake! I’m fucking ugly!’

By now, hubs was pishing himself laughing. So were the kids. And my daughter’s fiance. He didn’t say anything though. He’s obviously much nicer than my own kids. I think he might be scared of me too. No fucking wonder! I was terrified when I saw me in that photo.

My eighteen-year-old said it did look like me but maybe in about ten or fifteen years from now. She’s a bitch. Hubs said that was good, though, because then I wouldn’t have to get a new photo when I next go to renew my passport in ten years. He’s a, he’s a, he’s sleeping on the couch!

The applications haven’t gone yet. I’m so tempted to go back to the booth and have another one taken. Or kick the shit out of it. But I’m scared I’ll get another just the same. Or even fuckin’ worse! Then I can’t even say it was an aberration. I can’t risk that. I’d never be able to look at myself in the mirror again. I’d just keep saying to myself, ‘Do ye think ye’re lookin’ good, hen? Aye, well remember what thought done. Shat the bed and blamed it oan the blankets.’

I’ve always known I wasn’t photogenic. Now, I’ll have the evidence for the next ten years. And that bastard of a son of mine said that the DVLA could access my passport photo when I come to renew my driving licence. Did you know that it’s become obligatory to have photo ID on your driver’s licence? So, I’m not only running about illegally (sh!) but I’m doing it with a coupon that looks mangled. And he wants me to let them put the same one on my licence!

It’s snowing here. If it clears up I might nip down with my illegal licence and talk nicely to the photo booth.

Then take it back into school on Monday for another signing. Maybe another slagging. But I’m a hacket-faced bint so I can cope with that.

My only consolation (I always look for the bright side) is that three of my daughters are nice kids. My youngest said I always look beautiful. (shit, I wonder if she’s a bit slow) and my twenty-two year old produced her passport to show me that she looked, in her words, ‘like a junkie’. And she did! I felt so much better. My eldest said I shouldn’t mind because, if it were her, she’d rather the geezers at passport control were shocked the right way. She’s maybe my favourite now. For a wee while.

And, if you think there’s a hope in hell that you’re getting to see it, you’re wrong. Very fuckin’ wrong. Jist so’s ye know. I’ll unfollow ye if ye ask. I feckin’ will!

Off to practise taking selfies. Wonder how the filters work. Je ne sais pas.

Hair Today, Gone On A Promise

What is this vision that I see before me?

A beard, egads!

Has Santa come to stay?

But wait!

It is not uniform, all white and fluffy,

Must query this conundrum with no more delay.

For patch upon the chin has made this piebald,

A presentation quite perplexed, I fear,

Where should be brown, we have alarming.

Did you have a fright?

Oh, how ghastly, good lord, dear.

Passports pending, photographs are looming,

Some sample of the truth of your visage,

One cannot see fizzog for variegated,

And, lo, I see a problem, this mirage

Officialdom will ponder, quite as I do,

Whatever happened here,

Has terror struck?

Officers will mull

Much more than I have

And murmur under breath,

Osama, resurrected, wtf!

I’m only saying, darling, cos I love you,

This beard you sport has aged you in extreme,

These whiskers here resemble one Catweazle,

Not to mention itch and scratch unseem.

I’ve purchased brand new razors,

Here be scissors,

Aftershave delightful, just for you,

Me? Admittedly, I find this frightful,

Though kids all say it’s charming,

Little liars – that’s not true.

Who is this man before me, I be crying,

Here be yeti!

And whyfore, wherefore, feckfore, is it multihued?

The hair upon your head is not coloured quite so.

My eyes!

My eyes, oh golly gosh, have come unglued.

There must, I think, be reasonable ‘splanation,

Some sort of answer to this question, hereabouts,

I cannot think and you’re devoid of answers.

Has someone bleached you?

Have you been sheep-dipped?

Another problem, darling, lies in skin test,

Mine, you see, is delicate.

It is!

Snogging not an option with such whiskers,

The slightest peck but never full on kiss.

Though softer now, it started very jaggy,

My face afeart you’re hiding more of same,

Be a sport,

I’ll even do it for you,

Come back to me with skin so soft and tame.

You’ve trimmed and clipped and, yes, there is improvement,

So, time, I guess, is no issue for the task,

A daily shave, or two, you hairy bastard – smile – only kidding.

What else to say? Just really had to ask.


And do I tell you how to wear your hair, dear?

Such colours you have tried – and styles – I’ve squirmed,

Remember when you shaved it up the back, dear,

Well, I do,

Thought I was married to a bloke, a guy, a him.

You do yours and I’ll do mine, unless dear,

A face bereft of fuzz still turns you on,

It does!

Good god, why didn’t you just say so?

Give me half an hour – wink, wink – I’m on a promise.

Twenty minutes later, it be gone.

Clubs and Pubs and Eyebrows


couldn’t be part of a harem

couldn’t be part of a gang

couldn’t lie down where other folks lie

couldn’t, for fear I’d do harm

couldn’t be part of a co-op

couldn’t be part of the tests

couldn’t imagine a club I could join

where I would be at my best

have always been part of a union

as long as they aren’t too dense

don’t fight both corners, betray or deny

cause common, with some common sense

couldn’t contribute to cliques where

niche means crawling or worse

couldn’t just fib to fit in there

expressive face too frank of a curse

couldn’t be bothered kow-towing

couldn’t reveal all I know

alphas or kappas, whatevers

couldn’t just put on a show

tho’, have been tempted by acting

oh, woe, with a sigh and a swoon

melodramatic, quite catching

alas, yorick, he passed on too soon

briefly joined brownies and girl guides

but uniforms, rules and the likes

gave me the creeps and right eyebrow

gave away that I thought it all shite

always got on with most folk

but never, well, rarely, in clubs

much preferred ordinary wisdom

found on most benches in pubs

carry folk forward I love best

connections all made through brief life

but give me a one onto one folks

I’ll follow like obedient wife


I have no idea why my husband is laughing so hard.



Oh, Richard, how could you?

These were written for Mindlovemisery’sWordle #231 and are also my contribution to Seniorsalon #5.

From the words below, select at least ten and write.


Their connection wasn’t quite unique; so many others had come and gone before her. She understood he had others. But he had told her things she had never heard before; made promises that had reassured her anxieties. Their union would be lasting and safe.

That had been a huge part of the appeal. Night after night, for years, he had kept his word and been there when she needed him. And, she knew, she had been good for him. Both had been faithful to the arrangement and, for the most part, things had gone as smoothly as butter on a hot pancake. And now this.

Try as she might, she could not believe his final words. The chill of impending loneliness had begun as soon as he had uttered them and now a death sentence loomed. Why was he leaving?

She had thought they would be together forever, joined as only two who needed each other could be. Hadn’t she given him everything he’d ever asked of her, with barely a complaint? Hadn’t he taken it all, as if his right? She had been almost an innocent when they had first met but, unlike him, had not claimed to be virgin. What sort of provider was he that he could sever what they had together, so easily and move on to his next conquest?

Now she had all the bother of finding a new deal. Going out of the media business indeed, Mr Branson. You cad!

Two for the price of one. Can’t resist the rhyme. 🙂

Oh, Richard, you cad, you bounder, you had

next to last shilling from me

you used me, abused me

okay, I used you too but what was a poor girl to do

You laid down your cable, so willing, so able

you wrapped me in connection‘s delight

you served me so well that I couldn’t tell 

you were a virgin, aye right

Night after night and all through the years 

you joined me from dusk to first light

butter in arms, I succumbed to your charms

you nearly had me in flight

Now what a chill, you do me so ill

sentencing heart and lifeline

burst my balloon by going too soon

but don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be fine

I’ve heard from some others, your financial brothers,

offering deals by the score

I’ll move right on by, won’t cry, well, I’ll try

we’ll be an item no more

I gave you my all and we had a ball

but how sure are your plans, do you feel

Your next challenge, to space, where I won’t see your face

Goodbye, sir, it’s been virtual, unreal

DISCLAIMER: Sir Richard Branson is, as far as I’m aware, very much still on planet earth, where, no doubt, he is aspiring to reach the stars. And I’m still with him. Eighteen years of my life I’ve given him. Not to mention a small fortune. Moving on is such a pain.

Over And Out



What would you have me do, dear Lord,

What would you have me do,

With the years I’ve left and the strength I have,

What would you have me to do.

What would you have me say, dear God,

What would you have me say,

With the words I have and the time to come

What would you have me to say.

You’re asking me, as if I choose ,

what I would have you do,

This game’s your deal, you win you lose,

I leave it all up to you.

But what’s the point in that, dear Lord,

That sucks, I need a plan,

A compass to steer by, a lifeboat, a captain,

A god, can’t depend on mere man.

I need a someone, a star in the sky,

A token, a ruddy big tome,

I need the wisdom, that fell through the ages,

To study and lead me to home.

Tough luck, my dear child, I came and I went,

I tried and I left it at that,

Why not do the same with the best that you’ve got,

I’m no magician with a bloody big hat. 

Get off you arse and give it a go, 

Just do it, anyone can, 

I’m no man of mystery, just gave it my best, 

Miracles happen with plans.

Hmm, that sounds like work, like labour, you know

That stuff where mothers give birth,

Painful and long and messy and crap,

Are you sure that’s the best that you have.

And what did you get with that pushing and shoving 

And what led you there to that joint,

Some pleasure, some pain and a whole lot to gain,

I call that a plan with a point.

So children and life and loving and stuff,

Some sex to give it a thrill,

Keep the pot boiling and never give up,

Do it with the best of my will.

I think you’re at it, are you laughing at us,

Chuckling at our frantic antics

Tell me the truth (I’ll keep it a secret)

Are you up to some of your tricks.

Well, what if I am, it’s boring up here,

I liked it best when on earth,

Wind up the natives, get them all riled

Some tricks and a bloody good laugh.

It could be so good, I tried to make it that way,

Then father called me on home,

Curfew, you know, out after time,

And time’s his, wherever we roam.

Why not just try it, I found it the best

Hanging with family and friends,

Speaking on up whenever I could.

Quite frankly, I found it no test.

Loving and living and fairness and shit

Some wine – I’m a dab hand at homebrew –

Stop fretting, stop fearing, am I really here,

You’ll soon find out if I’m true.

Are you threatening me ‘cos my birthday is near,

You think that I’m getting old,

Well, I’ve got news for you,

I do what I can and I do it without being told.

I’m on it and at it, all over this place,

Viral, I’m like a rash,

Up every morning and raring to go,

Just concerned I might make a hash.

Quit it, I’m tired, I’ve been up every night, 

Stopping you clowns from your worst,

Have you any idea what it’s like to be here,

An infirmary, I’m doctor and nurse.

I need a hand and you’ve got two hands 

And the stuff that’s grown as you’ve grown,

Just do your thing, that’s all that I did,

You have a mind of your own.

Oops, my bad, I thought you were free,

Plenty of time where you live,

Just give me enough and I’ll do my bit

And, if I fluff it, I hope you’ll forgive.

Over and out, do you say that up there,

Are you really asking to know,

Or just being facetious, I know you, you know.

Okay god, bye, got to go.


With apologies to anyone without a religious funny bone. Me and god have this thing going. (Yeah, god and I). He gets to confound me, I get to dig him up for it. He gets to tell me to get on with it because what difference does it make if he’s there or not. And I get to dig him up for it again. Then I just get on with it.

He gets to show me this amazing world. I get to show him pictures of my weans. He’s on Facebook, you know. Strange username. Hard to spell.

He gets to tell me to stop fannying around and I get to tell him to make life easier. We have a laugh. Mostly him, I think. We’re best buds, most days. Some days, though, I give him what’s for. Then he gives me it back. He’s like that, you know. Give a little, take a little.

Mostly, he’s like an aura. Like a mist that spans time and space and every notion we can conceive.

He gets to smile and love me. I’m quite lovable. Mainly. ‘cept when I’m in a bad mood. Then I’m a witch. Ask anyone. He quite likes witches too. Told me. Tells me a lot. Not the winning lottery ticket, right enough. Not sure why that is. I’d give most of it away.

Kinda seems to want me to just have sex and weans. I’m good with most of that. Have you seen my crew? Weans are great. So’s sex. Bang goes the winning lottery ticket.

Yeah, so, me and god. God and I. Whatev’s. Apparently, I’ve just got to get on with it. Does he tell you that too? Hope your sex life is good. Either that or you’ve won the lottery. I’ll keep the sex and weans. And just get on with it.

Winter Woes!

bear hibernating


Find your way out of December

it’s cold

 it’s dark

and it’s grey

it follows right on from November

chasing the autumn away



It leads to one of least favourite


that hole

in the year

where nothing is right, dark swallows the light

and adds another age to my years



February, I thole, with its promise

that the

herald of March

will blow in

buffet the cobwebs of winter

soon April will bring again spring

Kinshaldy beach


May might still feel like winter


not noted

for sun

but I hang on, with hope, in these dark days

that June or July will bring some

autumn in scotland


Failing the former, the latter,



give us a break

failing a summer then autumn

September, October, I’ll take

grumpy santa


But stuff the months of midwinter

with their birthdays

and dark days

and shit

Bah, humbug to winter’s

crap weather

don’t like it one little bit



Should have been born in the hot lands

or taught

to at least


I’d gather in nuts and milk chocolate

a pot of tea and just wait



Till daylight returns to the heartlands

till heart

has thawed

or dried out

any season but winter

hate it without any doubt!

Err, Ere, Er

Err in life to consummate its knowing,

Hello to all mistakes that guide the way,

Adieu to all perfection, we’re still growing,

I know, I’ve made and learned a few today.

To criticism, ere your learning’s over,

Debunk the myth that says that we should know,

Er, I think not, else I’d be a corpse here,

I’ll f*** up everyday so I can grow.

On it as we speak.  😉