Fatty and Skinny Were In the Bath


That’s me, Fatty and Skinny.
I used to be quite small and now, all of a sudden, I am fat.
I look in the mirror and I still see me, the small me, I look no different at all. If I turn sideways, there are definite rolls but when I squint and avert my eyes, they disappear. So visually, I am the same.
Last night my Christmas dress was delivered. I was blase about the fit, I had ordered one in a size larger than I thought I needed because I know posh dresses can be less-than-generous in the cut of their gib, so when I went to try it on, not to check the fit but to see how I looked (fabulous, I imagined), I was mentally unprepared for the following:
I could not do the dress up.
Not even nearly.
There were acres of space between each side of the zipper! It was like I was trying to fit two of me inside the blasted dress. I went downstairs to enlist the opinion of Jonny. He gallantly (and very courageously I thought), took a purposeful hold of the dress (with me still inside) and yanked the two opposing sides of boned material towards each other. My ribs creaked unwillingly and I let out a scream, but despite Jonnys vice like grip and determined grimace, we were unsuccessful.
I let the dress slither to the floor like a shriveled and discarded old skin where I hoped the dog would find it and turn it into a make-shift bed.
Then I went upstairs to wrestle with self-loathing.
I briefly fantasised about getting up at 5am everyday between now and Christmas and sprinting up and down the lane. I imagined I would not not eat for two weeks and get sprayed a serious shade of orange (I’m convinced orange people look thinner). Due to my inherent laziness when it comes to exercise (I like skiing and horse-riding and absolutely nothing else), this fantasy will not turn into reality. But thinking about it, imagining I am capable of such feats, will make me feel slightly fitter.
So what’s a girl to do? I have no psychological issue with buying bigger clothes (a financial one maybe), but unfortunately I am now a square with two legs sticking out. And they’re fat too. My wellies are actually tight. Tight! A couple of years ago I had to buy socks to wear with them to fill the gap between calf and boot because they made such an obscene slapping noise whilst I walked that my friend was getting an erection. Now I lose sensation in my ankles within two minutes of forcing my trotters inside the Hunters. My thighs rub together (hello talcum powder), my underarm boobs have merged with each round the back (wtf?) and my chin has joined my chest.
No clothes are made for this predicament. Skinny jeans (utterly ridiculous, what happened to the boot-cut, or even better, the ruddy big flare?) pinch, dresses don’t fit (see above) and onsies give me a camel-toe. It is out of season for tent-buying and so I am ridiculously grateful that this year it is de-rigueur to wear a novelty Christmas jumper. I will be searching for a knee-length one!
Merry Christmas

Hair In Lies The Answer

My cousin and I have recently happened upon the answer to the problem of underage sex and drunken one-night-stands;


Or rather, we haven’t ‘happened upon’, we have devised, because we are extremely clever and should probably be running the country…. anyway, I digress.

The other day, my friend was going on a blind date (I had nothing to do with it!) and of course we discussed the yay’s and nay’s beforehand. “You are not to bonk him” I said, sternly. “I wont!” she squealed, then followed with “anyway, I can’t, I haven’t shaved my fanny”. Ok, well she didn’t say fanny, but I love that word so like to use it wherever possible. Furthermore, she had a full leg and bikini wax booked in for Monday, the date was the Saturday prior to that and no way was she going to ruin her carefully cultivated hair and waxing calendar for a blind date.

And that, dear boys, is the Gods-Honest truth as to why sometimes you get laid and sometimes you don’t.

It all depends on hair.

It doesn’t matter how much of a slapper you are (I don’t mean this in a derogatory way, I love a proper slapper), or how utterly rampant you are feeling, if the hair is past it’s best and the minge is not ship, shape and shiny, we’re not playing ball/s. January to the end of March are probably the worst, Crimbo parties are over and spring is far away so we grow our little furry selves under woolly tights and skinny jeans, safe in the knowledge that no-one is going to see them. Unless we’re on a promise 😉

There have been occasions when ladies have been a little inebriated and they’re too drunk to care about contraception, periods, husbands or otherwise and think ‘fuck-it’ I need a shag; alarm bells do not ring about consequences but let me assure you that if those bloody legs are hairy, if the pubes have reached the knees, there is no way those knickers are going down, no way Jose.

We know that when you males are drunk, a big, hairy minge, the odd stray hair wont bother you, but we don’t want you telling your friends, ala Liam Gallagher; “she’s got a hairy asshole”. It’s not nice to be sniggered at in the pub. Nor do we want what happened to one girl I knew, who was in the ‘stubble stage’ of growing back her mary, when the ‘gentleman’ told everyone “she had a muff like a brillo pad” and was thereafter known as ‘Rough Muff’ by literally everybody in town.

And all teenagers think that women don’t even have pubes nowadays, let alone hairy legs or pits, thanks to the porn available on the internet. Imagine, God forbid, what happens when they start developing it? The hair is probably met with absolute hysterics and prompts desperate bids on Groupon vouchers for laser treatment, painful attempts with home-waxing kits (never, ever attempt to wax your own bikini line, it will result in tears, ruined underwear and a fanny that looks like it has alopecia) and stealing their dads 52 blade Gillette razor which does a marvellous job but he wont thank them for it. This is a shame, because I remember the excitement of growing my first pube, God, I was thrilled! My best friend had one giant hair that was magnificent, we were so proud of it. All that is lost nowadays, ah, nostalgia.

So we propose that all hair removal products should be banned from being sold to under 16’s. And no waxing them either.

And ladies, if you know you’re a bit of a goer and cannot trust yourself on a Saturday night, just leave the hair removal for another day!



I deserve a medal today, perhaps even a trophy, because I have taken a major step towards getting rid of some of my ‘hoard’.

Today I have organised for waste collections to come and take away three of my sofas, that is 50% of the sofas currently in my house. I do not live in a large house, I am not a wealthy person (in fact, I have never bought a sofa) but I have an innate fear that ‘people’ will visit and have nowhere to sit. That’s the reason I use and give for my almost, but not quite, out of control habit of collecting sofas. Over a period of two years I have collected no less than nine sofas. The dog has two sofas. I hadn’t even realised I had an issue until a friend came to stay and asked, quite bluntly I thought, “what the fuck is going on with the sofas?”

Along with the sofas, I also have four cookers/ ovens (only one of which works, partially) and two fridges (one of which is in good working order). And mountains of other stuff. It’s everywhere.

Four bookshelves are stuffed to the brim with books, plus they tend to slouch around all over the house; in the bathroom, next to my bed, on the arms of sofas, on the stairs, I need another bookshelf. Every now and again, under duress, I am forced to choose which books to take to the charity shop. My cries of “but they’re my friends!” go unheeded (I do indeed see all my books as ‘friends’ and most of them have a little history or a tale I can tell about them, I very, very rarely lend them out, I love them too much). So I carefully and tearfully select one a few books to go to the charity shop, put them in a box, then hide the box! I have several of such boxes stored about the house.

I never throw anything away. From scraps of paper to receipts, train and gig tickets, glo-sticks, odd socks, keys, etc, etc, the list is endless of the crap I keep. I never delete emails, hence I have so many email accounts. I cannot bear to be parted from anything. What if one day I lose my memory? What if the person or people the emails are linked to, dies? It’s all I will have left.

Luckily, I have many wonderful friends and I am never left to my own devices so my hoarding is not on a scale that would make for gripping television. But I’m probably on the tip of the iceberg. When a recent guest told me that they had “braved the bathroom” I thought it was maybe time to clean up my act, so hurrah for me, I have ordered three sofas to be removed (although none were in the bathroom).

Photo courtesy of: http://styleredux.blogspot.co.uk/2009/03/life-is-too-short-to-be-dull.html

Good Morning Me

After a brief spell of introspection this morning, I experienced a ‘Eurkea’ moment. I was considering the reason that I am so often late; a problem that has been with me all my life, one I fail to mention during an interview but wrestle with on a daily basis. My record for being late is two weeks, my average is one hour.

So this morning, as I had woken up early, I decided to consider why I am late. Lets study my behaviour in the morning.

Today I needed to be in work for 10am. After my ten (yes 10!) alarms have gone off at 5 minute intervals, plus the snooze button, I am awake. I slept with my contact lenses in so I could immediately use my phone to check facebook, gmail, twitter and hotmail. I lost at least half an hour fannying about on social media. Then I spent another 45 minutes marauding (laying in bed thinking). Sent a tweet. Checked facebook again. Looked at the time and leapt out of bed when I realised it was now 9.15am.

I rushed into the spare room to get dressed as I now realised I needed to hurry, whereupon I saw my naked self streak past the full length mirror in the wardrobe. “Wowser”, I thought, “I look great” (the mirror is very old, it has an antique finish which is extremely flattering), so I spent another twenty minutes prancing about in front of the mirror. I did manage to get a pair of pants and ski socks on, which only encouraged me to pose more.

I then spent anopther 5 minutes worrying that someone might be spying on me. Logically, I know this is impossible, but it did stop me in my tracks and made me get dressed.

Then I charged down the stairs, hustled the dog into the garden, chucked food at my parrot and jogged down to muck out the horse. I was distracted by the geese which had escaped and whom everyone except me is frightened to death of, so I herded them back to where they should be and fell into a day dream about having some geese of my own to live in my garden. I spent some time chatting to my horse, gossiping to people on the yard and speaking to the chicken. Still  dreaming, I wandered slowly back to my house, and in no way whatsoever did I hurry to organise the dog and parrot for the day and set off to work in my car.

I was late, obviously.

And I have concluded that, I need to take my contact lenses out before I sleep at night!

Dear St Valentine, “Ride Me, Bitch!”

For many years I have been under the illusion that I am (in my own words) an “excellent” matcher-upper of people. Today, I have had the illusion shattered and my days of setting people up are now over. My friend kindly but firmly pointed out my successive failures in the match-making industry.  

The thing is, I don’t know the etiquette of match-making. Where does my role stop exactly? At what point do I issue a disclaimer? What exactly can I be held responsible for? Because as far as I’m concerned, I think my part is connecting the two people, end of role. This is not so apparently. I have found myself organising peoples diaries, suggesting suitable restaurants, arranging the meeting places, giving directions, exchanging phone numbers, issuing instructions, confidence building, assisting in facebook stalking, reassuring, cajoling and chasing people up. This is followed by; checking during the date that no-one has been murdered and nothing untoward has happened, providing a get-out option if the date is not going well and ensuring the datees have made it home safely. I then listen to a blow-by-blow account of the date and find myself apologising for the behaviour of one party or the other, (one particular time I even apologised to the parents of the ‘injured’ party), giving out advice on emergency contraception, making appointments at local STI clinics and somehow ending up wholly responsible for the sorry mess that it inevitably turns out to be!

I mean, how heavily do I need to ‘vet’ these people? I am shallow and tend to find people either attractive or not attractive, and feel that is a good basis for starters. Does it really need to be any heavier than this? Apparently so. I think what gets my goat the most is the sheer amount of dishonesty, on the male part. They are a bunch of toads and quite frankly, NONE of them deserve any time with my gorgeous girls, damn all the boys to hell!

Boys are/ were one of my most favourite things but the more of them I meet, the less I seem to like them. Lets take a look at my track record, with sincere apologies to those unfortunate victims along the way. (Note* some names and identities have been changed in order that dignity may be maintained).

The most recent disaster was with Marcus*, a man I met once, at a party in January and my dear friend Amelia*. In hindsight, I think perhaps it wasn’t ideal, after a few cheeky tequilas, to judge someone as ‘awesome’, so maybe I was viewing him through beer goggles rose-tinted-glasses. The upshot was, the shy psychoanalyst from a little village overlooking the ‘green’ turned out to be a health & safety officer from high-rise flats in Bumstoke and the only grass in his view is at the end of the dual carriageway on a roundabout. He went on to confess that due to low self-esteem about his small penis, he suffered from erectile dysfunction (can’t get it up, in other words). He could have mentioned this before the date ffs. I have since heard he had been on no less than FOUR dates with different women last week (did they all get told about his tiny, flacid cock? Is it part if his ‘seduction’ routine?). So much for his shy-guy persona, he is a chancer and a cad. What utterly disgraceful manners.

I set up an incredibly beautiful girl with a cute friend of my boyfriends. The first date went well, they were discussing a second, then she turned in to a total bunny-boiler; I was held responsible for the saga, which continued for several weeks with parents and various business associates becoming involved.

I arranged a date between a male friend of mine (who said he was ‘desperate’) and a lovely work colleague. He viewed her via facebook, gave the go-ahead and they met. The date lasted ten minutes, when my friend told her the picture he viewed of her on facebook, was one where she was in a group of three girls, and he “thought she was the other one”.

There are of course some girls who absolutely refuse to listen to my worldly advice when it would be wise to do so. Keith*, a bit of charmer, has urinated on no less than 4 of my friends. Each one of them was warned beforehand that he isn’t ‘house-trained’, none of them believed someone could be that disgusting. He is.

I set up my friend Diana* with a guy I knew called Adam. I assured Diana that Adam was not a ‘pig-dog’ and that although he was quiet, he had good manners and would be the perfect gentleman. The night came, they met, they went out, they went to bed together. Diana called me the next day, outraged that during the hanky-panky, Adam had slapped her hard on the bottom and shouted “ride me, bitch!”. At no point during the setting up of this arrangement did I suspect he might be capable of this sort of behaviour.

Conclusion: you can never tell!

Don’t Panic, There’s Always Boots!

Despite my late start this year to get into the Christmas spirit and even though at the beginning of December I decided, in a fit of childishness, to ‘cancel’ Christmas, I finally managed to cajole myself into some sort of excitement. Which meant I had to do a u-turn on the ‘I’m not buying any presents’ decision and go shopping.

Hence on Saturday I found myself panic-buying in the 3 for 2 aisle of Boots. I was not alone, as I’m sure you can imagine. Several hundred people with a guilty look on their face were scurrying into Boots then participating in a free-for-all. Hello Kitty make-up bags, Twighlight perfume sets and Lynx body spray rained down on my head. A Sanctuary bath scrub whistled past my ear, tug-of-war broke out in the Royal Jelly section and arguments raged on all sides. Near hysteria was reached when selecting items in order to get the best value (cheapest product free), everything had to be the same price or it “wasn’t worth it”. There was definitely no sign of gifts being chosen with love and careful thought. Which didn’t actually make me sad (though I am aware that it probably should), oh no, I turned my elbows out at right-angles and got stuck right in!

I fricking love Christmas. The insanity of it. The wild look in peoples eyes as they charge up and down the high-street with rolls of wrapping paper held out as if in a medieval jousting contest. The consideration given to meaningless tat that would be discarded promptly at any other time of year, the miserable queues for Santas grotto, the screaming children abandoned in their pushchairs as mothers do battle for the latest must-have toy, the hysteria in Argos, the absolute bedlam in the gadget shop, the awkward wrestle with your conscience as you realise that yes, Aunt Maud will yet again be given lavender-scented microwaveable slippers. Chaos reigns, it’s brilliant!

I must confess that I have also had my moments of fraught frustration. One year I bought my brother a set of weights. Great idea, except I had parked miles away and carrying over 30kg through town was no joke, chivalry does not exist at Christmas time so I was merely glared at as I collapsed regularly, I nearly abandoned the bloody things several times. The pubs look so inviting at Christmas but should be avoided at all costs whilst shopping, I am gung-ho enough without being aided and abetted by alcohol; buying my Grandmother a t-shirt that says “nobody knows I’m a lesbian” will not seem nearly so funny on Christmas morning, when stone-cold sober.

I look on enviously at the people in Starbucks, burying their faces in cream-topped mochas. Who has the time for this luxury?! And how on earth do they carry coffees and shopping? And how do they find a table to sit at? I braved the German Market in Birmingham last week, it was hideous. I wanted to lay down on the floor and weep (which is what I did last year when I went with my friend Chris, but in my defence I had the flu) so I calmed myself with an over-priced Gluwewin and left.

But despite all this; the stress and the strain, the madness that everyone is gripped with, the punch-ups in the car parks, the soaking wet feet and freezing cold hands, the aching shoulders and tired legs, the lack of change for the bloody multi-storey and the rage when you discover Next have run out of mens slippers, I will never resort to being one of those smug b*****ds who do all their shopping on the internet. It just wouldn’t be the same without at least one dash through the 3 for 2 aisles at Boots!

The Office Christmas Party

Promises and points to remember for oneself this year, before the Christmas Party;

Under no circumstances should I mount the bucking bronco, even if it is dressed up as a reindeer.

Thrusting towards to the cute marketing graduate on the dance-floor will lead to excruciating embarrassment for the whole of the next year.

The boss is not a priest, confessions will be taken down as evidence and used against me at a later date (possibly in a P45 format).

Attempting to lasso people with my scarf is only amusing to me and may result in an assault charge.

Being hailed as a ‘nutter’ is not a compliment. Do not get on stage with the band.

I cannot River-Dance, do an Irish-Jig, Belly-Dance or be a Cossack. This still applies after the consumption of alcohol.

Pole-dancing is for professionals only and pillars must not be writhed against in an unsightly (or any) manner.

Crowd-surfing is for festivals only.

Ditto mosh-pits.

There are no ‘amusing’ stories about customers. Refrain from discussing anything that may have raised a snigger in the past.

My moose impressions are not suitable for this environment.

The compere will not appreciate anyone ‘stealing his thunder’. Or his microphone. Leave well alone.

If I head-butt the toilet door whilst going to the loo, it is time to leave the party.

The Office Christmas Party is not a time to enjoy oneself. It would be wise to remember my management status.

My assistant is there to enjoy herself. Her duties do not extend to looking after me in any way, shape or form and certainly do not include holding my hair back, cajoling me to leave, fetching me water and/ or a bucket, making apologies on my behalf or reassuring me that and I am in fact brilliant and will not be sacked on Monday.

If I suddenly find myself as the Centre of Attention and realise I am the most beautiful, witty and hilarious person at the party, STOP. Immediately. This is an illusion, it is time to exit with dignity (though dignity may have left sometime earlier) and get the hell out of there!

Girls With Filthy Cars

Yesterday, my dearest Brown-Eyed-Girl found a mouse living in the glove compartment of her car.

This is not a shock to me, and I suspect, neither was it to her.

Brown-Eyes and me belong in the same car-owner category: Girls With Filthy Cars

You know the sort, we’ve all met them, generous with offering lifts and cheerfully late, with the fuel gauge permanently on empty, the GWFC will storm up to you, music blaring, yakking away on their mobile phone and shout at you to “just climb in”. At which point you will contemplate the mountain of junk in front of you and wonder where, exactly, to sit. There will usually be a dog of some description, either lurking about, leering at you and letting off farts or just the evidence of one; a layer of dog hair, dried slobber and a deeply entrenched smell of wet dog. Crisp packets galore, bottles of drink rolling about, magazines, horse-rugs, at least twenty packets of cigarettes, lighters that don’t work, lots of unopened post in ominous brown envelopes, a variety of half-eaten but unidentifiable items of food and practically a whole wardrobe of clothes. And lots of carrier bags.

As a GWFC myself, I always wonder what the problem is. “Wimp” is my first thought, when I see someone gingerly stepping into my vehicle, or notice their eyes watering when the dog has let one rip. People have actually refused to get in my car (their loss, I am an excellent driver) or insist on hanging out of the window for the duration of the journey because of the ‘smell’. We then lurch off, stamping on the accelerator and brakes with equal enthusiasm as the unsuspecting passenger searches in vain amongst the debris for a seatbelt.

I used to drive a Fiat Panda, which was often referred to as my Hairdryer. And I guess it was very much like driving a hairdryer; small, compact and blowing a hoolie. It was so full of stuff, I could only fit myself in it, although my mothers labrador used to perch perilously on top of everything with a nervous look in his eyes. A policeman pulled me over in the hairdryer once, because he saw me leave the pub carpark and wanted to breathalise me. I passed the test, which disappointed him, so he proceeded to look around the whole car and check the tyres, all of which were ok, then he asked me to open the door to inspect the inside. He regretted it immediately. An avalanche of wet and muddy horse-rugs fell on top of him, shortly followed by the dog. As I tunnelled in, bringing out an array of surprising things, getting more excited as I discovered long-lost cereal bowls, a TV remote control and various missing shoes, I saw the policeman admit defeat.

The hairdryer used to be a bit iffy about starting in the mornings, so in the absence of any WD40, I would lift the bonnet and spray everything liberally with deodorant or hairspray. This worked surprisingly well. The first ever car I drove was called The Budgie. It was bright yellow and I drove it around the farm because I was too young to be on the roads at the time. The Budgie had absolutely no mirrors, grass growing out of the passenger foot well and no back-seats, which made it perfect for collecting sheep in. On the road, this car was hair-raising but going about the farm it was fine, except when I once had to make an emergency stop (a duck made a suicide dash) and Emily the sheep got wedged between the two front seats……. I also had a car that was missing a window, so I used a wheel clamp to stop any buggars from nicking it. The wheel clamp worked wonders for me in other ways too, I never got a parking ticket, however ridiculously parked, with that yellow clamp on.

So all in all I am not surprised in the slightest to find out there was a mouse in living in her car, at least she knows the squeaking is nothing expensive. And my advice to all future passengers of GWFC is; don’t wear white trousers.

Rural Idyll

When friends and family come to visit, I have fantasies of inviting them into my beautiful, idyllic cottage. I imagine that I will have finished all the decorating, there will be fresh flowers in the guest bedroom, home-made bread will be rising in the Aga, I will have completed my over-ambitious gardening project so we can all have civilised drinks on the breakfast terrace, I will wow everyone with my home-made chutneys and apple pies using fruit grown by my very own hands, the bedding will be freshly laundered and ironed, the animals will behave impeccably well, etc, etc.

This is no way ever reflects the reality.

What happens is this:

My guests are always parked up and waiting on the driveway for me to arrive home, because I am so rudely late. So I hare through the gate, slipping on the rotten apples (that I have failed yet again to pick up), full of apologies, which they cannot hear because my over-sized, ridiculous hound is stood on her hind legs, pressed against the window, barking like hell unleashed, slobbering all over the glass and looking really fierce. The guests are bursting for the toilet (of course) so I wrestle with my front door, which, due to the house falling down no longer fits its frame, fall over the coats and shoes and unopened post, all the while being whooped and cheered on by Wally the parrot who is positioned at the end of the hall-way, open the inner front door and race up the stairs before everyone else to flush the toilet chain and check for loo-roll, picking up dirty knickers clothes on the way. Then I slam the bedroom doors shut (best to hide the mess) and shout that they may now use the bathroom.

I do have a downstairs bathroom, but you have to be brave to use it. Placed on the back of the house as an afterthought, it looks like a Swedish sauna and I use it as a dumping ground for things such as a panel saw and disc-cutter. I am also scared of spiders so I have stopped opening the door incase there are some giant ones in there.

Then I survey the astonishing mess in my kitchen. I am lucky in that I have an enormous, plain-glass window across the width of the kitchen that looks directly onto rolling fields, I am always distracted by the beautiful views. The window is single pane and has gaps around the edges because the frame is rotten and therefore leaks and lets in a howling wind, but I love to look out of it.  I do not know, I really don’t, how so much mess happens. I reckon the sheep pop in during the day and have a little party with the cattle and use all the crockery and cutlery to do so.

So I charge about the house, stuffing socks down the sides of the sofas, spraying air freshener and lighting candles to try to get rid of the distinctly pungent aroma of dog farts and stick the kettle on. Whilst the water is boiling, I decide to check the garden for dog poo and discover that yes, my dog does indeed shit at least ten times a day and no, the fairy has not been for the last week so the lawns resemble a training ground for landmine clearance. Hence, the second sight guests are greeted with is me, racing around with a horse poop-scoop and a black bin liner, picking up elephant sized crap in order for them to enjoy their tea or coffee outside, in the rural idyll.  Guests then make their own tea/ coffee, they can see I have my hands full.

As the dog runs through her repertoire of party tricks for the visitors (wall of death around the garden, thorough search of their handbags followed by a smash and grab of an item from it, slobber on the most expensive trousers, loud fart, toy that has been left in the rain is rammed into someones crotch area, and so on) and I reassure everyone that the milk in their drink is supposed to have lumps in it, I usually start to admit defeat. Realisation dawns that my hosting skills have sadly not met my own expectations, I am not Kirsty Allsop or Nigella Lawson, Domestic Goddess, I am an optimist, not a realist.

Without rose-tinted glasses, what I and my guests are confronted with, is a house that looks like a tornado has recently ripped through it. Unkempt, apple and conker-littered lawns, bare, stripped walls with exposed plaster in the living room, no curtains (I hate them) or even rails for curtains to go on, an unholy mess in the kitchen, a conservatory that has been turned into a parrot playroom with a three-man sofa for the dog to lounge on, an avocado bathroom suite with test-patches of paint on each of the walls, mouldy window frames (I don’t know why I find that funny but I do), freezing cold because I cannot afford oil for the central heating, a beautiful Aga that is out of action because of the oil situation and a sad-looking Baby Belling that is borrowed to replace the Aga. There are mice in the house occasionally (I should probably stop feeding them pizza), and earwigs, beetles and spiders (hey, my house is literally in a field) and I will not have them killed, we all live in harmony. My animals are unruly (like my life), my laundry habits are hit and miss, carried out on a need-to-have basis (I only bought an iron and ironing board because one guest refused to visit unless I got one for him to use) and I like climbing mountains, even if they are made of clothes.

But I love entertaining, so I am free with my hugs and enthusiasm, the views are indescribeably perfect and beautiful and best of all, the carvery in the village is only £3.50 per head, so dinner is served!


The View from my Kitchen Window

Wally Worcester

Meet Wally

Isn’t he just brilliant? He thinks he is. I love this little bird so much my heart could burst. Since he and I met, it has been one big love-fest. From the very first moment we set eyes on each other, we hit it off. He climbed straight onto my head, gave me a lovely indian massage, created a nest in my hair then helped himself to my flapjack, scattering crumbs all over the floor. How could I not take him home after that introduction?

In addition to his batfink persona https://skiingsaddler.wordpress.com/2011/01/06/im-going-to-faint-get-me-a-cherry-tomato/ , Walls’ also does an excellent impression of a pirate! He struts along, chest out, imagining himself with a cutlass and eye-patch (he’d look so cool with a pirate hat). He regularly challenges my boyfriend to a duel, who always politely declines. Wally loves women, his ideal trip out would be a coffee morning with the W.I. or Ladies Day at Ascot. He is not above launching himself at and attacking any male person, plucking hair from their legs or firing a well-aimed shit from his perch at an unsuspecting ‘offender’.

My words cannot do this extraordinary parrot justice. The pictures may help, he is amazing, just check this little dude out!

 Wally enjoying a prawn. He loves his food and has a ferocious appetite.









  This is him in the apple tree having a good scratch. Wally will always look like he has been dragged through a hedge backwards! Unfortunately, his partner of ten years died and he was distraught, that is when we found each other. I am hoping to find him a new mate but he is proving to be very fussy. There are no lonely-hearts ads’ for parrots…..

He helps himself to my drinks when he thinks I am not looking.

 He feeds my dog cheese

Wally has a dark side, he flashes at people!

He ‘fixes’ my hair

He comes to work with me, here he is checking in at reception

Mostly, Wally loves to be outdoors. He is not wing-clipped, which means he has full use of his flight feathers and he is in no way tethered or restrained. He loves to sit on the fence, enjoying the view and chatting to the wild birds. My biggest concern is buzzards, so I keep a careful watch out for these.

We play Where’s Wally? He goes up in the trees, he is a brilliant acrobat and has a great time climbing, when he has had enough, he shouts “yoo-hoo” and I go and fetch him in. Can you spot him in this tree?

If Wally can embarrass me, he does not miss the opportunity. He terrorizes my friends if he thinks they are nervous of him. He is a bit of a magpie and loves all things sparkly (think earrings, watches, bracelets etc) and can be a real cross-patch if he does not get his way. He imitates the telephone ringing perfectly, wolf-whistles and makes various whooping and cheering noises, I love being cheered and whistled into my own house when I get in from work, it is very good for the soul!

Wally and Me