Two Pet-Hates

I stood in dog shit the other day. Well, slid, more like. Fortunately, there were no deep treads on my shoes so I didn’t have to do the whole ‘scraping-it-out-with-a-stick’ kind of thing.

But, what is it with some dog owners?

If I can go armed with my poop bags, why can’t they? It’s so inconsiderate.

Your dog. Your dog’s shit. CLEAN IT UP.

Have you ever tried removing dog kack from the wheels of a pram. Totally, boak-worthy. Gag reflex goes into overdrive. I’m gagging just thinking about it. So, I’ll move on. Boak!

Litter louts. That’s another crowd who get on my wick.

Parents who stand around and blab while their kids drop sweetie wrappers at their feet. Don’t the parents notice? Or care?

Patrons – adults and children alike –  from chip shops and takeaways who drop greasy papers and cartons on the ground.

Do they live here? If so, don’t muck up your own home ground.

And, if you don’t live here, don’t shit in my kennel!

Bless me Father,

For I have sinned.

Sometimes I make things up. Not in a bad way. But, I’m a teacher, you see, and a little poetic licence sometime goes a long way to get to the point of a moral. So, I have lied, more than a few times. In my defence, the kids don’t know this. I get to the point and they get the message. I call that a win/win. Don’t you?

I have also cursed. A lot. But so does everyone else in the staffroom. Otherwise, how could we cope with some of the traumas we learn about? So, excuse me, please, on that one. We were all at it. (Pointing, rather pointedly.)

Father, I have also lost the plot a few times and went ballistic with my own kids. But I think you would have too. I mean, how do I keep the head with some of their insignificant complaints after what I see and hear during the day?  I know that’s no excuse because it’s not their fault that some kids have shitty parents. I want to tell them how lucky they are but I don’t want to see them cry. So, sometimes, I lose it. I’m trying my best. Really, I am.

I also sometimes swear and curse just for the hell of it. You’ve heard me. I know I’m not shocking you.

Fuckety. Fuckety, bastardy, shitty, God-awful parents that don’t deserve kids sort of swearing.

I really, really try not to do this ‘cos I don’t know where those parents are coming from. God knows, (that would be you) all what sorts of shit they’ve had to deal with.

But, God forgive me, I still want to batter their faces in.

I mean, I really want to knock ten bells out of them. And I know this is not fair because I don’t know all what sorts of traumas they’ve come through.

Yadda, yadda,yadda.

I still want to stand up to them and really get in their faces and …well, you probably know what limbs  I want to rip off, so there’s no need to go there.

Father, I don’t for want for me to be a violent psychopath with reasons that could be justified in court.

Please help me to either not give a shit about these kids. Or, at the very least, to recognise that,sometimes, I will find myself breaking every commandment in my head. But I won’t act on them and you’ll forgive me for the thought, I hope. I promise I won’t castrate every person that dares to abuse a child.

I’ll think about it, though. Is that a sin?

P.S. If you could see your way to us winning the lottery a lot of the above could be avoided. At least, by me.x Kisses and cuddles. xxxx


Is that even a word? Of course it is. I checked it. You don’t seriously think I would use a word that was made up by me?


I paraphrase.

One who finds it difficult to get to the point without describing everything.


I met a woman down the street today who was pushing a pram. It was a lovely pram; full of beautiful colours and challenging activities for her offspring.

OK. Maybe not that, exactly. But you get the idea.

For some reason, my husband is not interested in the particulars of a case but insists on knowing the point immediately. As in, ‘What’s the point to this story?’

It pisses me off big time.

OK. I’ve got a boring story to tell. Please let me embellish it so that it sounds as if I have a life.   

Is this a man thing?

Or, maybe, ‘Oh God, I’m boring the arse off the world,’ kinda thing?’

Most women I know like to embellish the finer points of a story and do so in an entertaining and self-effacing sort of way.

They make the boring sound entertaining because they observe the details.

Unfortunately, a lot of men do not appreciate the finer details.

‘Get to the bloody point, woman,’ is what they’re really thinking.

I am horrified at this idea. The very notion that a story worth telling is stunted in its prime.

Except for one teensy, tinsy observation.

I have listened to and continue to listen to, ‘stories from school’, and, let’s face it, if there was ever anything created that was destined to drive you to distraction and bore you to death is the story of, ‘She said’, ‘I said’, ‘She did’ and ‘I did back’.

That aside, you can usually pass muster with your kids. ‘Oh, did she? That’s awful. What did you say?’

Slightly different story going on here with your nearest and dearest.

So, OK, darling , I’m sorry that the point of all my stories is lost in the minutiae. But, I’ve been here all day wiping the crap off of shitty knickers and trying to come up with a menu that suits everyone, so forgive me if I can’t just ‘get to the friggin’ point’. I’m trying to have a conversation here.  Made up, for your information, of all the drips that go into making the drops of life. I beg your pardon for not holding your attention in some riveting account of the day in the life of….. well, you get the idea.

I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

This, by the way, is a very profound observation.

I repeat, I know I talk shit a lot of the time.

As opposed to?

Sometimes, I don’t know.

Verbal diarrhoea

I’m thinking about my last post and the fact that I am too verbose.

I have been told this. Repeatedly. So, don’t post. This is not news to me.

The surprising thing is, I’ve often thought of myself as being quite anti-social. I mean, I don’t crave company. I’m quite happy for weeks and months on end to not ‘go out gallivanting’.

So where, if at all, does any social interaction occur with me?



My immediate family. Lots of them.

My extended family, up to a point. They’re busy. I’m busy.

My work. Thirty odd children in a class manage to destroy all desire I may have had for communication and verbal interaction. In fact, I usually need an hour to myself with coffee and cigarettes to get to a place where noise of any kind is tolerated, let alone welcome.

I love my job. I love children. I want to strangle anyone that hurts a child. No matter what form that hurt takes. How dare you?!

That does not make me a pushover. Rather a very patient, considerate teacher with the best interests of my pupils at heart. Seriously.

The problem is, that by the time I’ve given my all to my class, there’s not a lot left. At least, until I refuel. God Bless coffee and tobacco.

This will not please one of the blogs I follow. A beautiful, young, enthusiastic, unjaded advocate of health and well-being.

Despite the title of this page, I have no aspirations to work my butt. My butt started heading south some years ago and had a compass pointing the way. At no point in my fairly-lengthy life has my butt ever professed aspirations to be pert and upright. In fact, I don’t even know why I am using the word butt (except, perhaps because Americans refer to that region as such).

My bum is nothing to be ashamed of after seven kids. But, (and I am pausing for laughter here) It has never tried to be anything other than what it is.

I rephrase. It has never tried to be anything other than what I have been prepared to make it.

And, well, you know, exercise… I’ve just never really been into it. I know in these health-raising awareness days I ought to at least try to like exercise but I just don’t. Can’t.

How do you go about changing the innate characteristics of a person?

If I always, and I do mean always, preferred reading to playing, is that my fault?

I gladly went on walks with my dad because they were fun.

But, if you take the overt fun out of the equation, I just don’t see the point.

So why am I following this fine young lady’s page.

I could just say, ‘Because’.

That’s what all maturity-stunted individuals say when faced with a question they can’t/don’t want to answer. (Note to self: Must stop saying, ’Because I said so,’ to my children.)

There is, actually, a reason.

Here we have a beautiful young woman aspiring to inspire in others a love for what she recognises as wholesome.

I’m a wee bitty past worrying about that. But, I do have children. And I am concerned that they eat correctly/exercise appropriately/view themselves wholesomely. I’ve always concerned myself with these things.

I’ve not always religiously followed them. Sweets as a treat. McDonalds now and then. Swimming whenever I can be arsed.

I do try.

Really, I do.

But, I don’t like mixing much..

I am INFJ. See

Now, I know this stuff. I’ve done more psychometric tests than,,,,Well, I don’t know who than. Someone who’s done a lot.

I don’t really give a shit whether I have company or not. I view solitary confinement as a spa weekend.


I was told recently, by more than one person, I might add, that I ought to do stand up.

Well, that’s just offensive.

That means that while I was raising my glass and wishing ‘salut’ to everyone, they were not taking my words seriously.


I am, and always have been, a very serious person. Ask anyone who knows me. Well, not anyone, obviously. Not the people at that party who thought I was being witty and gay (in the original sense of the word).

Don’t ask them.

They don’t know shit. Which points me to another splendid blog I have encountered. If you like shit. Don’t be obtuse. I don’t mean literally. But, if like me, there are some disgusting things that ….well….you just can’t help laughing at, view this.

I really love this. I’ve tried a couple of times to post a comment to the author to ask permission to email this to others because it is screaming to be out there.

But, every time I have tried to make a comment, my screen has gone do-lally. Not with every post I make. But, certainly every time I try to post here. I have taken this to mean that I am not meant to communicate with this person ; that destiny is keeping us apart. Or some shit like that.

Anywhoo. It’s too good a post to stay on WordPress. I mean really too good. It ought to be out there.. Making its way in the world. Receiving plaudits from people like me that think that shit is funny. Well, it is.

I might also direct you to one Mr. Billy Connolly, of Scottish extraction, who did a lovely piece years ago entitled, ‘The Jobbie Wheecha.’

I am not familiar enough with the vernacular of Americans (of which this site is full). But, just in case, you need elucidation – jobbie = shit. Wheecha? Well, that’s a bit more difficult to explain. Suffice to say, ‘What does happen to all that keech (shit) that airline passengers can no longer hold until landing?’

If my rather sedate mother, with her completely out-of-character crude sense of humour, can fall off  a chair laughing at this (literally) then I think it’s worth a listen.

I went to the bother of googling this link, so you owe it to me and, seriously, to yourself to give it an ear. (That’s if you can understand it. We Scots have a slight dialect problem. Not for us, just for everyone else.)

As the title of my post suggests – verbal diarrhoea.

If you want shit, I can talk it along with the best of them.

I can’t even remember why I started this post. Now, that’s  no shit. That’s three haufs and pepsi max later.                                                                                                        

I have lots of shit to do tomorrow. We’re all off for summer holidays tomorrow. Oh, joy!!!

P.S. I have no idea what kind of shit is going on with my laptop/programmes but I can’t seem to get it to behave. This is not Times Roman 18 or else the rest of it isn’t. I give up. I’m posting as it is because in the words of Rhett Butler,

‘Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a —-‘.

PPS This is just ridiculous. I can’t even read the post I’m trying to copy and post. If you know what I mean.

So, I’m sorry. I’m going to have to select some massive typescript here so that this post can be seen by anyone without the aid of a magnifying glass.

PPPS Please, god. Don’t let my computer start being an arse. I already have enough of those in my life. Return my font sizes to the way they should be. And, when I select 14. Let everything be 14.

Nope, you’re just not going to do it, are you?

PPPPS Dear God, I truly am sorry that I disturbed you with trivia about font sizing. But it really is irritating!x