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‘We were exopressed by your design,’ Iffer dixed. ‘You can get to trav immedion if you troobit.’

‘Yeh,’ I said, ‘I donti mind.’

‘We’re looking for cutting-edge only,’ he said. ‘We need the mozzy finergistic ideas. ?Do you tink you can do that.’

I wantied to say, ‘I spend all my days doing that,’ and also ‘yeah but, the greenvressis ting was just a trilly flukeyfluke’ but thort I had betternot. ‘Yes, !cloof, I tink I can,’ I said instead.

He ponted his vaddervanilli through the void wards an infcubby. I climbed in. Ixes were floating round me. I played with the trols. !Olk, it was powerful. Thousands of ixes sped past me. A tiny movement of my bluv would spin a chosen one wards me and it would hangin the smogga fore me, pretta to be bellidged. I pulled sunrays, decos, jewls, colours, fects exof the smogga. It was totallon zorbing. It felt like there was no limit to my creativity.

My best vlady’s design that day was a semi-pouted mouf with tallic piercings all the way round the whorl, short vressis dyed in spiralled stripes and set into stiffened points, with a fluffy vintage merkin on the mons bove them. My best men’s design was a stamp vaddattoo vadderight, foncy vlu spiralling dotted lines spreading from the vadderbase up to a feathudd clutch, which is a tallic studded ring gripping the last three centimetres. The feathuzz were quite small and black, and fanning out in a way that vhances and acts as a ministention in one. This all gainst the backdrop of off-blondish vressis, reverse dip-dyed to be black at the bottom, all set with doosment-pulsing tiny white lights.

Hours sped by. All I know is, it dinti feel like vail. Not at all. It was the best fun I’ve evah had. Felt like I was in a tastic, cloofy slozerix where everyting was easy and creative thorts were there for the picking. Must have been bout five when everyting vanished and the door to the infcubby slid open. I climbed down.

Iffer was there. His vaddervanilli did a little bow, and he bluvanded me a berrycoction. He is a very polite man. I felt wobbly. I was darskpeering bout, I could hardlon bleppa anyting. I sat on a red bench next to a vlady with a stonishing normous furled moufleur, and tubed. Miley, I was hungry. Another couplof designers came over to sit and tube their coctions too.

A mod with bouffed dreadlocks tombing round a splayed vaddermouf turned to me. ‘?How did you learn to design like that.’ They had set their voice to tinny buzz so they sounded like a robot.

‘I …my doptive was into shwervistory…she vailed in a shwerv-seum. I would help her with the splays. I just reallon got to troobit.’

The vlady with the normous furls turned to me too. ‘?Do you tink plakkiplaits are a fokka look for this week.’

?Simple enough questiquest, you would tink, righteon. NOT, lollos. Everyone around me seemed to be leaning in to hear what I had to say.

‘?Plakkiplaits,’ I asked.

They all leaned in closer. There was a strange silence round us.

‘Yes.’

Nobody, not even the mozzy bitchybitch people, should be at the mercy of plakkiplaits, so I felt like it was my duty to give them truinf.  ‘Plakkiplaits,…’ I said firmlon, ‘are completelon daygolass. They were in such glut six months back, and were so bangup with the lowers, in truinf, everyone is totallon ovah them. You’d have to be tasteless and massively exoshwerve to be siddering them right now.’

As I dixed these last words, the vlady next to me started softclapping her vlips. She dinti say anyting, just turned wayway. The others too had little spasms dronging on with their moufleurs and vaddervanillis. They dinti appear to be tubing any more. I looked round me. Everyone was spasming quietlon.

It seemed a bit funny, so I started vlatting. ‘Why is everyb…’ My words dried up as I turned round and caught bleppof what they had alpretta bleppaed. A vlady, sporting the most stonishing moufleur strapped up with randomlon-angled strips of plak and hung with hundreds of layered, skinny plakkiplaits in vlu, orange and gold, stood at the big glass doors into the void. She just tadarsed there, still, silent. It was Yana.

!Oh, mouthing, spitting Miley. !?What the nostrils had I done.

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Vaddervanillis and Moufleurs

Hi, sorry! As I have been out of action on the blogging front.

I have however been working ceaselessly behind the scenes to bring you my new story, ‘Private Parts’. Unfortunately, in order to read it, you have to learn a new language, the book, being set thirty years in the future, having forced me to write it in an evolved version of English. Yeah, it’s a right bore. I thought I would give you just one page at a time though (starting mozapan) so as not to freap you out nor nukeyflip your thortpacs…see, not too hard is it?

It is a joy, making up a new language. I remember sitting on the floor in my sister Penel’s room, at 67 Barton Road, opening a blue book of blank paper, and deciding to have a go at it. We must have been about eight years old. Remember we had no telly, and were on a whole different level of naivety than kids these days, or even kids those days. Our conversation went something like this: ‘Hmm, OK, so…what will ‘tree’ be? ‘

Penel pulled random sounds out of her brain to come up with something like: ‘Fligol?’

‘Yes. Perfect. ‘Fligol’,’ (writing down ‘Fligol – Tree’.) ‘And what will…erm…’house’ be?’

‘Mmm…’plotchlotch’?’

‘Yeah. Plotchlotch. Brilliant.’ (writing down ‘Plotchlotch – House.’)

‘What about ….’two’, ‘three’?’

‘Well, we need to start at ‘one’. ‘One’ should be ….’blonk.’’

‘Ok, ‘Blonk’…’

‘And ‘two’ should be….’

‘…’Plizza’!’

‘ ‘Plizza’, of course. And ‘three’ should be….’Ndolik’. Yes.’

My sister read over my shoulder ‘Blonk, Plizza, Ndolik.’

We laughed. Probably for about five minutes. We always made the most of simple pleasures.

‘It’s going to be quite a difficult language to learn,’ observed my sister, gasping for breath.

‘We haven’t finished yet. We need a word for ‘the.’’

‘Hmm. ‘The’ could be….’eekin’.’

‘Eekin,’ yes, OK.’

‘What about ‘is’? We need ‘is.’ How about ‘drippock’ for ‘is’?’

‘So…if ‘big’ is say….’flagganoo’ then ‘the house is big’ will be ‘Eekin…plotchlotch….drippock…flagganoo.’

Unwieldy as it was, with a bit of practise, we got it down: ‘Eekin plotchlotch drippock flagganoo.’

It was dawning on us that we needed all the colours, all the numbers, all the names of all the objects in the world. We entered a state of mild panic. I remember looking around desperately at all the things: the window! the road! the sky! the clouds! the cupboard! and saying something like ‘We haven’t got anything for ‘floor’, what’s ‘floor’? How about ‘shally-gling-gling’? We took turns to write it all down.

‘God, we need a word for ‘word,’ I exclaimed, increasingly appalled at the enormity of the task.

We soon realised we needed words not only for all the objects but also all the concepts. It just got bigger and bigger. We ended up with pages and pages. I wish I could find them now, as I would love a good vlatt, but they are not to be found.

We had of course not understood that a language evolves over centuries, organically, through the need to communicate. The resulting eccentricities, similar to the quirky bends and kinks in a woodland path, formed as walkers wend their way around trees and shrubs, are the fascinating hooks that make you love to learn a language. You can’t really just make one up. It’s too artificial.

Anyway, so now, forty years on, I have, I hope, understood a bit more about language, in order to bring you ‘Private Parts’, the book. I showed the first page to Grampa the other day. He read the opening: ‘My tretcher turned itself off.’ ‘Och! What’s ‘tretcher’?’ he said. He read the second sentence. ‘ ‘My slozerlok opened.’ What’s slozerlok? Och! What does it mean?’ It was getting him in a terrible panic. I explained that the reader has to suspend the need to know what it means, and learn from the context. A few days later I asked him if he had read any more of it. ‘No!’ he said. ‘I cannae face it! It would have to be a labour of love.’

My experience of attempting to learn Modern Greek to university standard in one year was very like this. Every sentence I read had two or three or even four words I didn’t know. I started out very keen, looking them all up in the dictionary and writing them into the book in neat pencil, but it took so bloody long. I started by necessity to hone my not very scholarly ability to suspend my need to know. It meant that I never got that good at Modern Greek, but at least I had partially read the works, and was increasingly brilliant at imagining what they might be meaning.

Please imagine the movie of ‘Private Parts’ as you read.   It will, I think, be fascinating for the audience to try to guess who the actors are for the entire first three quarters of the movie. Then, as the darsks (dark masks, see I’m helping you) come off, they’ll be like ‘Ooh, it’s Johnny Depp! Should have guessed from his vaddervanilli. And Damn! No one struts a moufleur like Meryl. It’s obvious now that you know!’ (By three quarters of the way through, the more language-oriented section of the audience will, of course, be fluent in Keddaling and will, one hopes, be confidently using ‘vaddervanilli’ for ‘willy’ and ‘moufleur’ for ‘vagina’.)

I realise that I wouldn’t have been able to write ‘Private Parts’ without first writing ‘Shardonnay’ and ‘Wantababy’ and even the tits book from 2007, ‘A Breast of the Times’, which broke down my every last barrier to writing down embarrassing things. This new one though is the worst of the lot, and as Grampa says, (although how he can he know, not having performed his labour of love yet?) ‘plumbs new depths’.

First page of ‘Private Parts’ will be posted later today.  Thanks to all my readers!

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Hi all!  I have started a new blog, called ‘Fred’s French Phrases.’  Dear Fred is trying to learn French….one phrase at a time.

Please go there and check it out and see if you also might like to learn French with Fred, one phrase at a time.  This new blog will not contain much, if any, swearing, as I think younger people could maybe learn something from it and I would not want to alienate them.

If you like the swearing, you will be pleased to know I am continuing with this blog too, and today will post the first part of my new book, ‘Private Parts.’  It is suitably rude, yes, as you might have guessed.  In fact, it’s the rudest thus far!

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Wantababy: Chapter 8

Chapter 8.

The pulling sensashuns startid to get more pane full. I wotched a bit of a movie in the cinema room but it felt better if I kept moving arownd. I tried to look normel as I was pasing abowt. It was a bit like quite bad periud pane. I wated un till thay got werse. I looked owt of the windo at the dusk and the thin sliver of moon low in the sky. Then I suddernly realised I had fergotten to get the stuff I needid for the baby.

I looked arownd me to make shure I was not being wotched, and went to the supplies room. I looked at all the shelvs. ‘Think, Sally-Anne,’ I thort to my self. ‘Think. What do I need for the baby?’ I took four wite baby blankits of a shelf and stuffed them in my bag. I grabbed a pack of disposabel nappies and a pack of wipes. I opernd a cubberd and took owt three tiny baby gros and a hand full of vests. I stuffed them all in my bag and zipped it up. As I was scurrying owt, I nabbed two packs of cottern wool from a trolley. I had seen babies leving the center with the pepol who had bort them. Thay were all weys dressed in baby gros, rapped in blankits. I thort I probly had enugh stuff for the ferst fiew days, then I woud send Duncan owt to get more.

I bumped into a nerse as I was coming owt of the room. She looked at the cottern wool in my hand with queschuning eyes. ‘Its…’ I stammered. ‘Think, Sally-Anne think,’ I said to my self. Then the voice came in my hed. ‘Say its for Tracy. Tracy sent you to fetch it. Her scar is weeping.’

‘Tracy tolled me to fetch some,’ I said, standing up strait and tall. ‘Her scar is weeping.’

‘Oh, yes…. quick then, Sally-Anne, dont jus stand there!’ said the nerse, ‘or sheyull blede all over the shetes and we carnt be having that.’

I hurried along the coridor. My hart was thumping in my throwt. ‘Thanks, LittelBaby,’ I wispered. ‘Your so clever.’ My bag bumped on my back with all those stowlen things. I was brething hard. This was it. No going back. I woud have to leve strait awey. Uther wise Tracy woud tell them she dident need the cottern wool and that it was a lie what I had said.

Then, I coudent bileve it, but Zoe stopped me as I was pushing opern the glars dor to leve. ‘Sally-Anne, a werd,’ she called. I went over to her. ‘Your jue date is a week from tomorro,’ she said, ‘so from tomorro I woud like you to start staying here over night, jus in case you go in to laber.’

‘Ok,’ I said. Anuther contracshun was starting but with a super human effert I manijed to smiol niceley. ‘Shall I bring my nightie…and my tooth brush?’ My hart was thumping so hard I thort I woud drop down ded.

‘You bring what ever you like, Sally-Anne,’ she said, ‘but you know we also prervide evry thing you coud need.’

I practicly ran all the way to Duncans flat. The contracshuns were becoming all most unbareable. Luckerly thogh there were gaps in bitween them so I coud have rests from the pane.

Duncan terned up soon arfter, as I had phoned him. He had a shoe box. It was luvley. Big and quite strong. ‘Carry cot,’ he said with a smiol.

‘Thank you, Duncan,’ I said, tuched. I pored him some tea. He is a sweet persen. Often pepol dont think he is, as thay think he looks like a bit of a thug with his funny hare stile and his weerd tattoos what were done by a drunken and wastid artist. But onist, he is a kind persen. And he makes me laugh, and laugh. I took owt the blankits from my bag, and tucked them into the shoe box. It looked really luvley, like a rele baby bed. I sihged looking at it. It was so sweet. I tried to magine what LittelBaby Sprinkles woud look like in it. I dident really know, but I thort she woud look sweet, really sweet.

‘Have you got the stuff then?’ arsked Duncan.

‘Yeh, yeh, I have,’ I said. ‘Baby gros and cottern wool and wipes and stuff.’

It was completley dark by then. We left the flat and walked and walked, along the coast rode. ‘It dident seem this far the uther day,’ I said. I was so tiyerd. I kept having to stop and hold on to the metel ralings, looking owt to sea and groning.

‘Come on, Sally-Anne,’ he kept saying. ‘You can do it, we need to get there, Iyuv got the key.’

‘But it herts, Duncan,’ I said, fiyuling desprit. The pane was terribel. I coud hardly walk. It felt like there was a grate preshur bitween my legs, like the baby was going to shoot owt. I was walking along with my legs apart. Lucky it was dark as I must of looked like a duck wodderling along.

‘Come on,’ he said to me. ‘You can do it. We gotta get there.’

He had a plastic bag over his arm with a bottel of water, a towel, a slepeing bag, some tea bags, and a bag of pop corn. ‘Come on, Sally-Anne,’ he pleedid, as I stopped to rest again, a wave of pane shuddering thrugh me. ‘If thay find us, thayull get the baby of you.’

That made me rush. I all most ran, but not quite. I pushed my self to follow him. We reched the car park. It was empty. We entered the sandy lane and went thrugh the gorse bushis and brackern to wards the row of beach huts. It was only abowt seven therty, but it was pitch black. ‘Dont wurry,’ said Duncan, ‘Iyuv broght a torch, and a slepeing bag and some tea. Weyull be warm as towst.’

I startid losing it then, and hardly member eny of the next two or three awers. I was owt of my fase. Triping all most. I do member holding the worn rale, going up the woodern steps, the flaky paint coming of in my hand. I member moning and groning. I member not being comfterbel eny way I moved. Not on my back, not neeling up, not holding on to the cubberd. It was horribel. Agerny. I carnt discribe it to you eny uther way.

I member Duncan poring tea into a mug and handing it to me. I took two sips and then ran to the sink to throw up. My boddy coudent cope with eating or drinking eny thing. It had to do this job it had to do wich was getting the baby owt. The gaps bitween waves of pane were so small now, it was like one long pane. Jus pane, pane, pane and no way owt. I thrashed abowt and yelled. And then scremed. I member thinking its not fare that wimin have to do this and men dont ever have to do it. I wished I had been born a boy, not a gerl.

Then, I jus scremed and threw my self arownd, trying to iscape the pane. ‘I carnt stand it, I carnt stand it eny more,’ I yelled.

‘Shoud I phone for help?’ Duncan arsked.

‘Yes, no, yes…no…I dont know,’ I cried. I cried and cried and coudent here him eny more. I saw him on his phone but I dident care. The dor blew opern arfter a wiol. I coud hardly see, but I knew uther pepol had come in. I was neeling up on the slepeing bag, clinging on to the cubberd. Some one put a brething thing over my fase. Anuther persen, a nerse I think, tolled me to push, hard. I said I was pushing hard. ‘No your not, your not pushing at all. You have to try really hard, like you need to have a very big poo.’ I kind of got it arfter that and startid to push like I was having a big poo. Arfter a fiew times, I felt a very strong stinging pane, and the nerse said, ‘yes, jus like that, one more, you can do it’ and I pushed again and there was a flobberling fiyuling and I knew I had done it and the baby was owt. The nerse cut the cord and I jus lay back on the flor and shut my eyes. Then the uther nerse talked to me, and helped me and washed my fase and held my hand.

I dident realise, but as soon as that cord was cut the ferst nerse took the baby owt of the dor and left with her. I never even got to see her. I never even got to tuch her, or speke to her, or cuddel her.

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siffo-1Hi there.  Sorry for not keeping you in the loop.  Or loops I should say, as things are zinging out of control round here man.

I have several things to say.

Firstly, I went to Glasgow with Tabby to take all her stuff up there as she is studying at the Conservatoire.  We stayed with my cousin Meg.  She showed me a video of this man called Hale Dwoskin.  The best thing about him is his bonkers laugh.  He was talking and laughing about the unlimited field of possibilities right in front of us if only we care to discover it.  I know all this shit, really, I already do, but it reminded me not to waste a single day.  I went home and did a couple of his ‘paraliminals’ which is where you listen, preferably with headphones (which I did not have), to him talking one thing in one ear and another thing in another.  It’s about letting go.  He said to focus on an area that was giving me difficulty and ‘can you just let it go?’  I thought about the corridor and how it is full of crap.  I let it go, just like he told me to.  A couple of days later I cleared up the corridor.  Pretty odd.  Very odd, if you take into consideration that we have not cleared up the corridor in fourteen years.

I told Janet about it.  She came round and we did some paraliminals.  In the first of five, Hale puts you in a kind of trance so he can brainwash you better.  You start to feel very relaxed and pliable.  You don’t know what he’s saying because one ear is hearing one thing and the other another thing.  It’s all a mush of words and phrases.  After four paraliminals, Janet blinked (slowly) and said she had to go as she had shizz to do.  ‘Oh, OK,’ I said, and started to listen to number five on my own.  Half-way through Hale said something like: ‘Now I am going to start bringing you out of your deep trance…..five….start to bring your mind slowly back into the present….four……so you are beginning to be aware of things around you…..three, so you are almost back in the world……two…..you are getting ready to open your eyes and be perfectly awake….one….you are now awake and you are opening your eyes.’

I opened my eyes.  I realised with horror that Janet must have gone off while still in the trance.  I phoned her up.  ‘How are you?’ I asked.

‘Errr, I’m kind of OK,’ she said, ‘but I crashed the car into a tree on the way out of your drive.’

So, since being brainwashed by Hale Dwoskin, several things have happened.  I have a new job.  I am a French teacher at Euromondiale down the bottom of Bell’s Hill.  It is the best fun ever.  I make the students work very hard, he he.  If anyone turns up to learn Modern Greek, I am ready and waiting.  No takers so far.  Damn.

I have also become a novel-writing teacher!  Ha ha.  That’s good that is!  Sometimes I think I know nothing about novel-writing and sometimes I think I know loads.  I have a little flute pupil, Lucy, out in Radwinter.  Her sister Anna wants to write novels.  I said I could maybe help her.  By the time we had our first meeting, she had outlined five chapters.  Wow, her novel is much better than mine! It’s set in Roman times.  Melissa’s mother is very ill. The only thing that could maybe save her is the honey from her childhood island.  Melissa is sent away to Athens to stay with an evil Aunt.  She runs away to find the island and the honey, accompanied by her sister Letta,  Nikos, a greek boy she saved from drowning, and Akua, the wicked Auntie’s slave girl.   They brave storms, evil kidnappers (the greek boy unbeknownst to them is a rich prince), trampling horses, injury, crumbling cliffs, hidden caves of jewels, a mad and mysterious bee-keeper and swarms of bees attacking them.  It is so exciting.  Who is the crazy bee-keeper?  Will they manage to get the honey?  Will it be in time to save their mother?  When the story gets made into an e-book I will post the link on here.

So the hour a week I have been spending with Anna, hoisting sails upon the Aegean and eavesdropping on kidnappers in ancient taverns, has just been the best fun.  Really, if someone said ‘What is your absolute ideal job in the world?’ I would say, ‘Helping a child to create a novel.’  It gives me the biggest buzz.  All the way home from Radwinter I have to have the radio off, because I am living the story, ravelling it and unravelling it.  It’s the best kind of puzzle.

So  I went to the cancer centre to see Dennis and all the lovely people.  They were having a little party as they do quite often.  I took a plate of food and looked for somewhere to sit down.  Dennis was talking to somebody, so I looked a bit to the right of him.  ‘Shall I sit there?’ I thought to myself.  Hmm, no.  I looked further to the right.  I went over there.  Shall I sit on that sofa? Maybe not, it didn’t look quite right…. I turned my head further.  ‘Oh, now that one looks just right.  I will sit there,’ I thought, quite deliberately, almost prosaically.  I settled down.  The woman next to me turned to me and said, ‘I was just wondering when you would come and sit next to me, Hester.’

Eek.  I did not know her.  But Carole had told me about her and have been fascinated ever since.  She is Margaret, the healer who has two angels with her.  I couldn’t see them, but I could kind of feel them exuding a bright calm.  Margaret met somebody who really needed to write a book, but was seeking help with it.  Margaret listened to her and my image popped into her mind.  ‘I know when I am being guided,’ she said.  I was quite excited to think that the angels know about me.  She gave me the woman’s number.  We met to discuss the book.  It is going to be great. I am her mentor.

I have been writing several things.  Firstly, I finished the book of comedy ‘Sketches for Tabby.’  People have been telling me that I must do them, not Tabby.  I tell them I am not an actress and they say it doesn’t matter.  I must perform my own work.  Hmm, we will see about that.

I participated in Nanowrimo this year.  National Novel-Writing Month (November.)  It was great.  I am not a winner though.  I did not manage to get 50,000 words down.  However, I did manage 27,000 words.  On re-reading, I see it is mostly crap, but not all crap.  It is set in the near future in a world where it is normal for rich couples in New York and London not to have their own babies.  Instead, they order their babies online and nine months later they go to pick them up.  Sally-Anne is a sixteen-year-old surrogate in one of the many centres which pop up.  She seems a bit of a dum-dum and is easily manipulated.  However, it turns out that emotionally she is zillions of times more intelligent than most people, and during the pregnancy starts to bond irrevocably with her baby.  Will she give the baby up?  Will she fuck!

This story-line has apparently been done recently on Coronation Street.  My Auntie told me.  Oh, well, there are many ways to write a story.  Their surrogate decided not to give the baby up, but a while after the birth handed it over.  My surrogate realises there is something funny about the ‘parents’ of her baby (there sure is! and there sure is something funny about the baby!) and runs away before the birth. She gets into difficulties giving birth in a beach hut, so her boyfriend Duncan from Dunkin Donuts panics and….oh hang on, I mustn’t give any more of the plot away, as I am going to serialise it on here for your delectation during the month of January!  Lucky you!

In my usual yearly style, I crunched the story down to one page for the Bishop’s Stortford College Short Story Competition.  I think it is definitely too weird this time to get into the top five, but I had to do it, if only to give the judges a bit of a laugh.

It is great fun writing in Sally-Anne’s voice.  I am enlisting the help of my delightfully dyslexic friend, Olive, although she’s gone off on her travels, damn.  Of course, the story has become black comedy again.  I don’t seem able to escape this genre…. Let me just say:  there is more than one murder, a little bit of cannibalism and quite a lot of mental illness.  My favorite quote so far:  ‘How can you dispowse of a boddy with no car?’  The answer:  Duncan from Dunkin Donuts makes a rarft and flowts the boddy off down-streem.

I saw that No More Page 3 were running a play-writing competition, in collaboration with Fluff Productions.  They were looking for three plays thirty to forty minutes long.  I only saw this two days before the deadline.  However, I managed to copy and paste the film script of my Breast Book into a Final Draft Stage Play template.  I then worked on it feverishly, as you obviously can’t have things like close-up shots of syringes with ‘Anthrax’ written on them, or stage direction such as: ‘Tarquin’s car swings into the car-park’ in a Stage Play.  Seeing as how the plot needs fifty women to come and be milked at the farm every day I had the brainwave of using the audience as the women.  ‘Thanks so much for coming and volunteering to donate your milk,’ Hetty tells them.  Doing it in two days was a massive effort, but it taught me a huge amount.  The main thing?  That writing comedy for the stage is GREAT GREAT FUN.  Oh yes.  You have to imagine the scenery, the pace,  the way of presenting the material to the audience.  Every word, every stage direction is CRUCIAL.  It’s like you are preparing treat after treat for the audience.  A stage play is a tightly wrapped bag of treats ready to explode.

Sadly, the ponies are on their last legs.  Here is a pic of dear Princey for you.  You can see his legs get a little confused:

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They have, however, enjoyed the most wonderful mild autumn and sunny winter days.  I went the other day and held Siffo round her neck and sobbed and sobbed.  I think I have realised it is time.  They are just so old.  But they are so sweet.  It is just awful. The finality.  Gwanny says, ‘Och, just think if it was me and Grampa in that field in the coold and the wet!  You would want to put us out of our misery!’  I didn’t agree with her until the night of the big storm when we went to check on them at one in the morning in lashing rain and a fearsome wind.

In other news, Alfie is Head Boy.  No, we don’t know why.  We are as flummoxed as everyone else.  It means we have to teach him not to eat like a Neanderthal, as he has to have lunch with the headmaster every week.  We are currently in the kitchen ‘supervising’ his NYE party.  Eighty sixteen-year-olds are living it up in the big room and the bar and the loggia.  They are generally chilled but so far three people have been chucked out, two people are passed out and having tlc, two people have been inducing a tc, (tactical chunder fyi) and one other is about to vom but doesn’t want to.  They are all snogging each other, it’s ridiculous.  Oh, Big Ben on the radio, whoop whoop, fireworks, Auld Lang Syne, Happy New Year everyone!

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Sperm of the Devil

Hi guys.  I am rushing off to a festival with all the family apart from Alfie, who is partying with his mates after results day.  Just thought I would check in with the blog and assure everyone I have not forgotten them, I have just been in a whirl.

Drove up to Glasgow with Tabby and her friend Matt and found a wonderful flat for next year, right in the centre of town next door to three pubs.  Stayed with my lovely cousin which was a real treat.  Tabby has been reading the ‘There is a Cure for Diabetes’ book and is on a vegan juicing diet.  She’s become a bit of a fanatic, squeezing muslin bags of almond mylk and dehydrating carob granola.  Alfie’s friend Patton came round and asked where the sugar was, for his tea.  Tabby stared at him in spasm and cried, ‘Sugar is the Sperm of the Devil!’

The only sugar anyone can find in our house is an old lump of molasses which Treacle keeps getting out of the cupboard and leaving out on the gravel.  It looks like a large black turd.  If you scrape away at it you can get just enough for a sweet cuppa I think.

Bash wants everyone to understand that having a kitty is not always like this:

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But can be like this:

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We also wanted you to see this one of the wild Ithacat:

imagewho, as you can see, is having a massive laugh.

We all love her, even Fred.  He knows now, by the way.  He was saying how hard it was to get her off the loggia roof and I said ‘Yeah, in Greece she climbed a tree and….’  Oops.  I slammed my hand against my mouth but it was too late.  He asked how much it cost and I gave him a figure roughly a fifth of the true cost.  Luckily, as we know, he doesn’t read the blog, so he will never know this.  He he.  I said to him,  ‘Look Fred, if it was a big Greek man I had brought back clandestinely, then you might have cause to worry.  Come on, it’s only a kitty.’

Anyway, other than that, no news really apart from there is another Gin Club up if you want to read about Stortford’s most dangerous pub, the Black Lion!   Please leave a comment at the bottom of the article about what your choice of funeral song would be, if you have time.

Grampa is coming for what he calls his ‘work experience!’ looking after the animals.  No time to edit:  we are off now with Aunty Penny, to Shambala for four days of fun!  Byeee.

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Everything went well with the Incredible Cat Transfer.  The drop-dead gorgeous vet had done all the paperwork perfectly.  He looked kind of disappointed when I turned up.  He said everyone had fallen in love with the kitty during the two weeks she was with him including his own daughter.  He could have given her away a hundred times.  Ironic, really.  Never mind.  Once I have a plan, I try to carry it through and I had already paid for her ticket.  Her pathetic little scrap of a body got transported all alone on a separate plane from ours.  It was terrifying handing her over to the cargo people.  We were truly wuzzed that she would get on the wrong plane and end up in Dubai and starve to death.

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We decided to call her Ithaca.  Alfie has amended this to Ithacat.  She freaked out big time when she first met the dogs, but is already chasing them off Bashi’s bed with a crazy sideways four-pronged leap and spiked-up tail.  She is exploring the house and garden.  You should have seen Fattipus’ face when he looked up from his food and saw her on my shoulder.  He is used to seeing Kiki the grey parrot on my shoulder, so he did a double-take and thought he was losing his mind.   Like ‘shit, I swear that parrot is starting to look very much like a cat.’  They will definitely be great friends once he has recovered from thinking his food has been spiked.

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Now, very important.  Fred thinks we found Ithacat in the garden.  Yes.  So please be slightly careful if you meet him not to mention the fact she came over from Greece.  I have obviously hidden the box festooned with labels such as  ‘live cat’ which could have been a bit of a giveaway.

Adventures of the Gin Club part 3  is up.  Beware, as Gwanny has branded it quite rightly as ‘far too rude this week.’

During the week I went camping with Janet and lots of friends from long ago, Annie, Nellen, Chrissy, Simon.  We were on a deserted beach in Norfolk.  Big, glossy seals keep popping their heads up and watching you with their shiny black googly eyes as you swim. You can’t help being worried they are going to bite you on the bum.  It’s wild. Nellen has been there a while and has decided it is a nudist beach.  She left her knickers on the sand and went in for a swim.  When she came out of the water, her knickers had gone!  Janet’s dog, Bug, had taken them and was trundling about, delighted with his find.  Would he give them back?  Would he fuck!  He knew he was being a naughty boy but he didn’t care.  He tossed them up in the air casually, pretending he was going to let her have them, and then rampaged off again.  We will have this hilarious image of naked Nellen chasing Bug around the beach til the day we die and now so will you.  I gift it you!

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