Secret police


I have had a chulo day .

I blogged a bit, drew for a while, did the Times crossword and generally enjoyed myself.

Big H made me some poached eggs for my tea and then went out to his friend’s house as it is a Thursday night  and they have a standing arrangement to play at gaming together.

He will arrive back in a very silly mood and be a big pest.


I shall be busy tonight working out the details for painting a portrait of my big brother. I suggested that I do one for him and he was very enthusiastic,  so hopefully I should have it done in a few months.

It is quite an intense business but I love it. He is in fabulous condition, with a six pack, so I may do him shirtless but I have not decided on a course  of action  as yet.


Talking about six packs, my father had a six pack even into his eighties.  He used to do about four hours of push-ups, sit -ups, leg-ups and chinning a bar across a passage  every day, and he looked extremely youthful.

He had the silliest sense of humour and I loved him dearly but he died a few years ago. He could be awful at times but he was also very sweet. I can remember sitting watching him when I was a child, as he spent hours carving little pianos or animals out of pieces of Edam Cheese , just for me. Once they were done I would admire them, and then snatch them up and eat them.  Excellent.

Have you ever wondered why most elderly women look exactly the same?

I  think that I have worked out what happens to them. Picture if you will,  an ageing but still individual  lady, getting on to her local bus and going happily off to shop in town as per usual.

The only thing is, that this time she finds out that this  is not the  usual  journey, because the bus will make an unscheduled stop, and she will be escorted off the bus.


Later on in the day she gets back onto the bus to go home again and she is horribly different .

She is wearing a nasty felt hat with a big knob stuck on the top. Her coat is crimplene with four huge plastic buttons and it is far too short for the long polyester skirt that is hanging down limply except where it is stuck to her legs with static.

Instead of her smart high heels she is now wearing nasty cream flat shoes, in extra wide, with elastic front panels. These shoes also have holes stamped across the tops to felicitate the airing of sweaty feet and the easing of painful bunions.

So, clutching her handbag, coloured in a dubious shade of brown , she takes her seat.

Her placid face staring calmly out of the window , livened up with harsh mauve-red lipstick and the copious application of pale pink powder.

The deed is done and all the other similar old ladies nod benignly.

No,  NO,  do not be afraid you older peeps. You can stay safe from this terror by only ever travelling on a bus during the times when a bus pass is not acceptable, because then only real people are busy travelling, for proper reasons.

I believe  that you too can avoid the old age undercover police squads, if you stay ever vigilant, wily, and in possession of  up to the minute bus schedules

Rest easy. Even if it does happen to you, your husband will never notice the difference.



Hi Darlings,


Not so sunny today, and I hear that the weather will worsen soon.  BOOOOOOOOO.


I arose a little later this morning, and did all the usual things, except for having Marmite on toast for breakfast.

Very nice, but I do not feel an obsession coming on.


Then I made a decision to do nothing at all today.

Admittedly not much different from my other days, except that today I shall not bother pretending that I have done any housework, or anything else that is not pleasurable.


People always think that they have no power, but just think of the number of decisions we make each day, and how they form our lives.

If we have lives which are dull, boring and powerless, then that must surely be the direct result of the daily decisions we have been making.


There is actually no such thing as boredom in my opinion.

I think that what we call boredom is the absence of worry.

Think  how many times people who are going through some kind of personal hell, think longingly of the times before the situation they are facing arrived in their life, the time when they were happy.

The time when they were possibly often bored.


Boredom is surely a very recent thing, because in previous times a person would need to scrabble quickly all day just to get something to eat and a bit of warmth and comfort.  Added to that, there would have been a constant worry that raiders such as Vikings or other Tribes, could fall upon them at any moment,  resulting in slaughter, destruction or even lifelong slavery.

I’ll bet that those people would have regarded, as the utmost in bliss, any rare times when they were lucky enough to be warm, well shod,  well fed and able to enjoy an unusual period of nothing  needing to be done.


My own life is good, partly because I faced up to the fact that, although I love spontaneous partying and happenings, I do not really like long term formal arrangements.  Especially if they are not with people I love and enjoy and am therefore comfortable with.

We all meet other people who are just not our type and there is nothing wrong with that at all.


I remember years of utter dislike of having to go to places and socialize when I did not want to.  I hated those things.

Getting ready and going  out with Big H to all of his work do’s, which had been arranged weeks before, and  then just waiting till it was all over and I could decently leave.

Some of my friends like these opportunities and regard them as a good way to advance up the ladder and get on in business, but I dreaded and hated them.

What a relief it was to finally refuse to go anymore. Selfish I suppose, but after that I only did the stuff which which was unavoidable .

Likewise I learned to say no to people.


I began to learn to refuse to do unreasonable favours after an incident years ago, when the boys were small, and the summer holidays were just beginning.

Over the months I had saved up enough money to take the boys for days out and to buy them a few treats to make it special.

At that time, we used to be in the red by the end of every month, in order for me to stay at home with the children and still meet the mortgage payments.


A few days before the holidays began, a neighbour knocked at the door.

This was not a friend, just someone I passed the time of day with.

She asked if I would take care of her daughter during the next week, as she had been offered some temporary work at a big department store in town, and had no one else to take care of her.

I was nonplussed and ended up saying, “Oh, I suppose so”.

I was then informed that the girl, who was about three years older than my oldest son, would arrive at eight and go home at teatime.


It did not help when I later learned that she had asked everybody else she knew, before me, and I was the only one too stupid to think of a way to refuse when she launched her surprise attack.


When I told Big H about being trapped into this he was exasperated and asked why I had agreed to do it, so I confessed that I did not know how to refuse.

My sons were not overjoyed either, with the idea of a GIRL  tagging along with them every day, and I had all the extra expense of paying for her to go along with us on buses and trains to the seaside.

Once there  I  also had to pay for her to go onto the amusements etc. and provide her with food.

I also I felt very stressed by the responsibility of looking after someone else’s child for so long.


Obviously not stressed enough to do anything about it though, because on the Friday evening when the mother came to collect her daughter, she said she had been offered yet another week, so could I do the same thing again.

And yes, you’ve guessed it, I meekly agreed to do it.

My boys and Big H were not impressed with me and neither was I.


It was at that point that I decided enough was enough, so however hard it was, I was not going to be caught out again.

I was going to say NO.


I then sat worrying, about how I would think up excuses as to why I was refusing, and about whether I would be able to do it  quickly enough.

I eventually  came to the conclusion that I did not have to give excuses to people either. it still did not alter  the fact that I did not want to do something that in many cases they had no business asking me to do.


My opportunity arrived quickly enough when I was again asked to do something and I just said, “Sorry, but I can’t ”

The person was not pleased and demanded  “Why not?”.

Flustered, I just blurted out “Because I don’t want to !”, and dashed away.

When I got back in the house, my heart was pounding and I felt awful.  My first reaction was to ring the person up and say I would do it because she would be furious with me etc.

I managed to stop myself doing this and, when I eventually met that person in the street again, she was perfectly pleasant and normal as if nothing had ever happened.

This was the birth of the refusenik that I am today.

Now when someone asks me to do something  and I don’t want to agree, I just say NO…If they ask me why not, I say because I don’t want to.

No one seems to be upset, but I do not really care if they are or not, and all my friends think it is funny.

So, if you feel that you are being put upon don’t say yes , try No instead ,because I found that it really did reduce the stress for me.


I keep in practice by saying  NO NO NO  to Big H most of the time.



That’s Entertainment.

Hello darlings,


Did you read about the  City of London Festival Street Pianos ?

What an excellent idea. It seems that for about three weeks there will be 30 pianos placed in different locations around London and they will hopefully stimulate passing pedestrians to have a tinkle on the ivories.

What an amazing idea.

I remember, when I was a child after the war, that there was not a lot of entertainment to be had and people had to amuse themselves. They would gather in each others houses and different people would do their special party trick .

My father would sit at the piano and play Boogie Woogie and my mother would play the hits of the day such as  ‘These Foolish Things Remind  Me Of You’  and  ‘Aint Misbehaving.’

There was one friend of my mother’s who had an aged father living with her and her family and he would  perform his party piece no matter how many times they asked him not to.

One New Year’s Eve he suddenly disappeared from the party and everyone groaned and kept rolling their eyes at each other.

Till, suddenly, the living room door opened and there he stood.

He was dressed in a long nightshirt, wearing his old unfastened army boots and sporting a bright red fez  upon his baldy head.  He was carrying a length of rolled up carpet under his arm and carrying a bucket of sand.

I was fascinated to watch him solemnly unfolding the long carpet runner and pouring the sand upon it.  He was totally ignoring everybody else in the room all during these arcane preparations.

He then went to one end of the carpet and got into position.

One arm was down by his side, the forearm pointing straight out in front with the hand bent straight upwards, palm out, while the other arm was pointing out to the back with the  back of the hand facing down. towards the floor.  He then began  to shuffle along the carpet, each leg movement opening the side splits in his nightshirt and exposing his long, skinny, bony, hairy legs with their big, knobbly knees

He kept this up for about four or five minutes , then stopped, glared at everyone, and left the room.

The conversation began again and nobody said a word about it.

The bastards. I was only about six but I loved it.

Sweet dreams,


P.S  I learned later that it was called a Sand Dance.


Hello Peeps,


Wow, today I logged on and what a surprise I got.

I have received a proper comment, from a real live person, who has not even been bribed a little bit.

Five days since I began blogging and I have a ‘fan’.

At this rate of growth I might end up collecting about three before I expire from septicaemia caused by bleeding fingers.

I have been very busy since my last post.

My friend called for me yesterday and was half an hour late.

This was because she had taken her dog to be clipped in the morning, as she had thought there would be plenty of time to do so if she just stayed with her dog during the shearing, and then they would both dash to my house.

Unfortunately, by the time the haircut was all completed, she was covered in long and short hairs and dander, and was itching and dirty.

This unexpected condition resulting in her needing to return home for a bath and a complete change of clothes…but she did look stunning when she finally arrived.


She had recently been to Debenham’s 50% off sale  and treated herself to a beautiful pale greeny shrug with a double line of frills around the hem.

Very pretty. Also purchased was a floaty scarf with silver threads running through which was reduced from £18 down to £9, but when she got to the till it was only £5.  She was well pleased and very well dressed.

We went to a National Trust property called Gibside, which is an 18th Century  Landscape Garden with an Orangery, a walled garden, ruins, and a lovely walk up a hill to an incredibly tall Column to Liberty.

The views from here were amazing. We sat upon the conveniently placed seat and soaked it all in.


I had made us both a lunchbox with fresh tomatoes, garlic, peppers, stuffed olives, red kidney beans and dressing.

I had tinned tuna mixed with mine, and she had Haloumi cheese  with  hers, because she is a vegetarian.

We found a beautiful Chapel, where you needed to put on blue shoe covers before you could enter, and it was amazing.

The huge entry doorway was covered with a white net curtain and there was a sign saying  ‘Please keep the curtain closed to prevent swallows flying in’.  Lovely.

It was on a lawn here that we put down the blanket and ate our picnic.

We began with the salad stuff and then ate a cake, which my friend had baked  especially for me, containing  a lot of whole plums.

Ater drinking lots of tea and consuming a peach each we were stuffed…..but happy.

Once we had carried the bags and things back to the car we spent a couple of mellow hours gossiping and wandering around the grounds and simply sitting looking at the river.


Before we left we saw a table with lots of plants on it and a notice saying to ‘ Pick whatever you want and leave a donation’.  I chose several plants for my patio from there. I do not know what they are but I hope they will be happy with me.

Later that night I dealt with some probate paperwork and was not finished till 12.15am.

I then gratefully retreated to my bed and read a book  called ‘ The Biggest Secret’  by David Icke, which describes about how there are reptiles living amongst us, who are secretly running the world.

Surprisingly, I did not have nightmares.


I hope that everything is going well for you too.



PS.  Hi Katy. Thank you for being my first!


As Gloria says,”I, I will survive”.

Hello my dear Peeps,


Well, in the words of that famous 20th century philosopher Oscar Hammerstein.

Oh what a beautiful morning ,
Oh what a beautiful day
I got a wonderful feeling
Everything’s going my way!

It is an amazing day today with a tropical blue sky stretching from side to side.

The sun is blazing down, and, best of all, I am still alive.
No emergency journey to the nearest hospital in the early hours.

No horribly inventive treatments in one of the wards, to keep me busy until I catch MRSA. Just a wonderful night’s sleep and then the unadulterated joy of a truly beautiful morning.

Once I arose from what I had feared might be my death bed, I went for my usual big wee, and then down to the kitchen to get the back door open and feed the birds.
I was able to put a huge amount of bread out for them this morning, thanks to the munificence of my local Spar.

I am in such a good mood that I have decided to forgive them their sins, although they did try to kill me a few times in the past.


After all, the girls who work there are very nice with me and the guy who runs it is not bad looking.

In fact, in the closed and secret world of Spar shop managers he is probably quite a Pin Up

I do have a friend who confessed during the Great Game that she would definitely give him one.

Of course she was somewhat pissed at the time, but that is usually when people give each other one anyway isn’t it?


Once I had put out the food for the suddenly jubilant and noisy birds, I came in to make my usual breakfast of two toasted Warburton’s potato pancakes and a huge pot of Earl Grey tea.

But this was not a normal morning after all, because after chewing through one hard round of pancake, I did not want to eat the other.

Fancy that, from a person who usually feels like going and toasting a third one,.

I have never done that of course,because then my tea would get cold and I only like it if it is piping hot.

It is always amusing that Big H cannot see how I can possibly swig it down like that without burning my insides and lips.

Equally, I cannot see the point of waiting for fifteen minutes before drinking your tea, the way he does.

Why bother making it fresh each time. Why not just brew one huge teapotful in the morning, and pour himself the rest of it out all through the day.

I tell him this frequently, and he gets irritated by it, but that amuses me because it makes up for him nagging me about wasting electricity.

Ah, the delicate in-fighting of a happy and successful marriage.

I must somehow work out how to use a spellchecker on this blogging, because things with multiples s’s and c’s and stuff always give me pause.

To get back to Warburton’s Potato Pancakes. I wonder if this is the beginning of the end for them.


I hope that the weather keeps up today because later this morning a friend is picking me up and we are going to go and visit a National Trust House in the nearby vicinity.

She bought me a pass on my birthday, along with a pretty leopard skin scarf and a long string of turquoise painted wooden beads.

I was very pleased. I enjoy opening presents a lot.


Another friend really tries my patience with her present receiving skills.

She tells her husband she would like a silver bracelet and waits excitedly for the big day to arrive.

She opens the proffered gift only to find a brightly shining bracelet….of an non hallmarked silver metal.

I asked her what she had said to him and she replied that she had just said “Thank you”.

“Thank you!” Is she mad or what.

I carefully explain that for  happy and satisfactory present receiving she must cover certain bases, such as explaining about hallmarks, personal style, sizes and desirable shops.

It also does not hurt to point out objects of desire in newspapers and magazines.,

This habit must be continued over the whole relationship, with regular updating in order not to receive items which are no longer desired, needed or fashionable.
It is no use trusting your average man to understand all these important details. That is why they are called men.

I myself  have had a picture of Richard E. Grant, cut out from publicity for Withnail and I, which has been with me for many years. Not because I fancy Richard E. Grant but because I lust after that lovely long fitted coat.

One day I will find one for me. It is these little dreams that help life to be rewarding and exciting.

I also want a proper American flat topped black cowboy hat and an incredibly thick ankle length leather belted greatcoat with a fitted waist.

Also a replacement pair of huge plaster statues, of a greeny and reddy coloured boy and girl, that the kids broke when they were little. They were not expensive [ the statues that is,  not the children ] but I loved them.

Also a very large German Shepherd dog that lies on a square shaped base, also made from plaster, along with some of those really tall old plaster statues of the Virgin Mary.

There is one about four feet tall in a shop we sometimes go to, but it is not for sale. I lust after it.


I did want some leopard skin boots for years and about two birthdays ago Big H bought me some. They were made by Dr. Martens.

They are lovely..Nowadays they make them in all sorts of colours and there are even some very pretty ones with flowers on.
Life is good.


Have yourselves a wonderful day. live in the moment because that might be the last one you have.

Yes to Richard E Grant.
No to the Spar manager.


Last post


This might be my last post because I may be dying from food poisoning.

I will seriously resent it if I do come to such a rubbish, and not in the least bit stylish, kind of end, because I always imagined myself dying wonderfully!

But to die because bloody Spar is selling cottage cheese with chives, that is two days past the sell-by date, is just too rubbishy for words.


For God’s sake, I could die magnificently saving someone from certain death.

Perhaps by rescuing them from abduction by aliens, as we both wait at a lonely bus stop.


Or by snatching an old person up, and out of the way, of an oncoming car.


Or by swimming out to rescue an extremely handsome older male film star from a rip tide…, not that one, because I cannot swim.


Anyway you can surely get the idea.

But to die because of old cottage cheese is bloody silly.


Actually today I was going to tell you how nice Spar was, because this evening when I went to buy the aforementioned cottage cheese with chives, they gave me some old bread for the birds, for nothing, because it was well out of date.

But now, because they are trying to kill me, I have totally changed my mind!

I shall tell you something else about Spar.

A year or so ago I bought a small but expensive packet of mixed nuts from them and got a horrible shock.
At that particular time I had a real obsession with these particular nuts.  Somewhat like the present unexplainable need for well toasted Warburton’s potato pancakes which I am experiencing at the moment.

Anyway, to get back to the nuts.

There I was necking a huge glass of unbelievably cheap but perfectly drinkable  ( if you are not too particular )  Spar white wine.

It was one of their usual three for ten pounds offers.

Suddenly, for some strange reason, I stopped and looked closely at the next Spar Luxury Mix almond ,which I was about to put in my mouth.



It was full of little eggs, held in place by some kind of web stuff.

When I looked closely I saw that the middle of the almond was full of these eggs.

I was so horrified that I wrote a furious letter to the Spar head office, just as soon as I had put my fingers down my throat and made myself vomit until I could not bring anything more up.

I stuck both the half filled packet and the offending nut onto the letter, both sealed in  little self-closing plastic bags.

A short while later I received a letter back saying that they did not know how such a thing could have happened and  promising that they would check thoroughly and let me know their findings as they care about their customers.

Do they hell!  I have not heard a word since.

But looking on the bright side.  I did find that wondering how many insect eggs I had already consumed before I looked closely at that particular nut, was, instantly and completely, the end of that particular obsession.

Because I am blessed with far too fertile an imagination, I am sure that I can already feel my stomach churning as the Salmonella and that other thing pregnant women get from soft cheese, are beginning their awful work.

I have told Big H that if I die he must sue them immediately just for spite.
And money of course.
Well goodbye to you all, possibly forever.


And remember to check your sell by dates if you shop at Spar.

From the possibly ‘soon -to-be-late’ Jaksie


PS:  It’s Listeria.  Thank God I am just old and not pregnant.

The importance of getting the name right.



Years  ago I read in our local paper that they were thinking of printing a series of previously unpublished poems, written by local people.

Did  anyone want to submit their work?


As I had nothing better to do that day, so I acted upon a sudden good idea.

I decided to send one my poems in.


I duly did so, and received a phone call some days later, to say that my poem would be in the paper on a certain date.

Oh Bliss.   Oh poop.   Oh me.  Oh my.


On the great day I rushed off to get the paper, turned to the appropriate page and there it was.

I read it through with mounting enjoyment until I reached the end.


There, at the bottom of the poem, was the name of the author…..AND IT WAS NOT MINE!

No, it was not mine, it was the name  and place of abode of some other woman, something like Beryl Longbottom of  Ashington!

What a letdown, but really rather funny.


You see, I was being rather facetious when I sent the poem in, because I wanted to see if they would publish something with the words bloody and fart in it?  And they did!


Just imagine though, if you will, the following scenario.

Miss Beryl Longbottom, well known spinster of the parish and leading light of both the local amateur dramatic society and the local W.I.

Devout worshipper, flower arranger and vicar’s little helper,  proudly and excitedly telling all her friends, with their cat’s bum mouths, that she is about to become a published poet.

Even reminding them, as the day draws ever nearer, that they must remember to order a paper.

Indeed, on that important day, even ordering a couple of dozen herself for quick dispatch to friends and relatives in assorted far flung places?


So, after a quick dash back from the newsagents, having just loudly informed him and the many impressed pensioners ( in the shop to buy their cut price sachets of cheap gruel ) that she is now a published local poet, she rushes, pink cheeked, back home.


Soon, sitting cosily by a cheering fire, she takes a refreshing sip of the steaming cup of tea at her elbow and then a neat bite of a tasty bourbon biscuit.

Now, with exquisite, long drawn out enjoyment,  she slowly opens a  pristine newspaper drawn from the top of the pile which has been arranged, prominently, on the side-table.

There it is,  poem of the day.

Is it not wonderful that a decent, clean , old fashioned, well written piece of poetry, using a nice rhyming style can be so thoroughly appreciated in these modern and turbulent times.

Then, consternation, disbelief, shock!  The best laid plans of etc, etc, etc.

This is indeed her own name but not her poem, unfortunately.

Oh dear, how will she ever dare to look the dashing vicar in the eye again.



Here is my poem.

In dialect, no less.


Nowt’s green roond heah

It’s alle bluddy concrete

Bluddy beach is gone

Nowt but a crappy auld seat.

Me Mutha’s deed man

Aye, ahm bluddy glad

Wi alle these changes

Shid tek it bad.

Shi luvved them trees doon bie the ‘Lark’

Coonsills buggered off  hinny

Wi wor bluddy park

Thiv changed it alle

It id break ah hart

Prougress and change man

It’s not worth a fart


PS:  The paper did ring me to apologise and they did eventually insert a small note, deeply buried in the middle of the newspaper, to say that I wrote the poem.

I wonder if that satisfied poor Beryl?




Hi Darlings,

Something else I forgot to mention.

The rating for yesterday that I gave as eight out of ten eventually needed to be updated to a resounding ten out of ten.


Enjoyed this morning’s Warburtons Potato Pancakes too


Oh yes, I forgot to mention something.

Did you see the photo of Bono on page 17 of the Sunday Times Magazine.  He looks just like Peter Andre. Strange.

GGQ..the answer is Yes, I think he is a superlative artist.

Today it really is Monday.

Good morning to you,


I hope that you have had a really good weekend and that you are feeling great today.

I am.

Last night I did not sleep so well so I ended up arising at about 4.30 am.

When I got downstairs I started my usual routine, by gathering up all the glasses, tinnies, cups and detritus left on the coffee table, from the previous evening’s debauchery.

When I stacked up the glasses, they toppled over and smashed. So there I was in the early hours, finding paper, and picking all the bits up off the floor.

After wrapping it all up, I went to get a black plastic bag, in order to to dispose of it all safely.

Apart from anything else, the plastic that holds tinnies together is harmful to animals, so you need to be careful with it’s disposal too.


Have you noticed what rubbishy black bags they sell at the Spar?.

They are so bloody flimsy that they rip when you are handling them. What crap we put up with.


After that I had to get out the Dyson and hoover up all those little shiny bits that are impossible to see, and dangerous to try and pick up yourself.

Then out to leave the rubbish in the yard, because I cannot go out into the lane to put it in my bin dressed in my tiger-skin dressing gown, with hair from hell and morning breath.

Yes, I know.

Why not, you say to yourself, there will not be anyone around at this hour and it will only take you a moment.


The last time I did that, a man appeared in the lane and kept me talking for what felt like hours, while two other people came past as well.

Bloody neighbours, I bet he thought it was hilarious to do that, but he does not know that sometime in the future I am going to kill him for it.


After that, I fed the birds with a couple of the buns left over from yesterday’s barbecue.

I love feeding them. It is something I started doing a few weeks ago after my mum died, because it made me feel better.

Once I have put out the food I come in and close the back door, and stand waiting to see who arrives first.

This morning it was a starling, who often comes down and sits watching me, even when there is no food.

Closely followed by two beautiful crows.

Or are they jackdaws?


They are a sort of grey /black with a darker patch at the front of their heads.

Anyway, I love the way they strut about, and the sheer size of them, with their suspicious darting ‘lookabouts’ and their horny beaks.


I feel this even though I know that if they ever find me lying totally drunk and legless in the garden they will probably peck out my eyes.


After that I made myself a big mug of Earl Grey and came upstairs to write this.

I did not make my toasted Warburton’s Potato Pancakes yet, because it is too early, and I will be hungry again at about nine

This way I have something to look forward to later.


Save up small pleasures in life and appreciate them. It helps keep you shiny and healthy.

Last night there was nothing on the television so we decided to watch a DVD instead.

My husband, whom I shall call Big H in future, chose to watch Jason Statham in Transporter.

I did not think that I would enjoy it, but I did.

Statham is very fit and I like his strange voice. I don’t know why Kelly Brook would leave him for Billy Zane. She must be mad. Unless, of course, he is a serial stinky farter or an Olympic class snorer, like a lot of men are.

And the answer to the Great Game question is a Yes.

Talking about the Great Game.

Have you seen Jeff Goldblum walking out of the desert at the end of Independence Day.

That man has such a sexy walk. His legs are so straight and tidy, with none of that strange knees- bending- sideways or messy feet, that you often see.

He became one of my favourites after that, and constantly pleases me with his elegant and graceful economy of movement.

This is unusual in such a tall man.

The answer to the G.G.Q. is a resounding YES, no doubt very much to Mr. Goldblum’s horror.

Whilst we are on the subject. I also like Bruce Willis’s face, because he always looks as if he is smiling about something.

No doubt he would continue to look amused even as he was giving you a thorough beating up.

He seems like a decent man though, according to what you see in the media, not many people would seem able to stay so close to a divorced partner. Good for them.


Today I am hoping that Big H will finish off the installation of his new television, so that I can finally tidy up all of the mess and dust that is all over the place.

But we shall wait and see.

It is now six thirty and I can no longer resist the siren call of the toasted pancakes.


Have fun.