Apologies for my tardy, and possibly tawdry felicitations. I have been involved in a minor mishap involving Storm Eleanor, a tree, and a muddy public footpath. The dog was also there, but is a blameless innocent creature. It was my own stupid fault for trying to jump down from the trunk of a fallen tree and misjudging the distance from trunk to ground. I landed badly, twisted my ankle, and possibly caused some damage to my knee. I shall gloss over the part where I nearly passed out in a deserted country lane. I am not one to make a fuss, it’s not like I was going to lay there undiscovered for weeks on end – hell, if the worst came to the worst I could have simply pulled out my smart phone and published a blog post to alert people of my distress, failing that I could have rung the emergency services.
Anyhow, all is well now, other than a twinge in my knee, and I still feel a bit odd. As part of my recovery process I have been propped up on the sofa watching box sets. So far I have watched all seasons of Stranger Things; Feud; and The Tunnel. I have become something of a TV drama addict, so imagine how thrilled I was when Killer Women with Pie appeared on my TV guide….
New Bake Off!!!
What could this be? Could it be a new Bake Off programme featuring female serial killers showing off their soggy bottoms? Or was it about dangerous femme fatales with a weakness for pastry nibbles? Even better, was it a new psychological drama whereby a crusty British detective and his French female counterpart race against time to prevent a batch of mince pies from going stale midway between Folkestone and Calais? Sadly, it was none of these, it was Killer Women with a pasty, patronising geezer. Programme makers please note that Killer Women with Pie had so much more potential.
Happy New Year!!!! Here’s hoping that all major drama in 2018 is fictional and confined to our TV screens!
The evenings of my youth smelt of Jazz aftershave and tasted of Jack Daniels poured over chinkles of ice. Nothing much mattered except good lipstick, mascara, big hair and reciprocated urges. Thursdays officially marked the beginning of the weekend, when my friend Gina and I would see if we could club solidly for three nights in a row. I always think of Gina as my sophisticated side-kick – she really could suck the crème from an egg without smearing her lipstick. She always looked stunning in Miss Selfridge black lycra mini dresses and six-inch stilettos, whereas I preferred tight belted baggy trousers from Top Shop and ballerina pumps; she liked to pose, and I liked to dance. We were a good team, she could immediately attract and I would do the chatting. We never used to eat before going out, perhaps we’d share extra strong mints and a squirt of Goldspot spray in the back of the cab before we arrived at the club, but we’d usually be too hyped to eat food.
Anyhow, one night Gina had been force-fed a curry before coming out and she said that her stomach felt a bit grumbly but reckoned she’d feel better after a drink… so she drank… half a bottle of Piper Heidsieck Champagne, four glasses of house white, and two Crème de menthes [looks like washing up liquid, but pretty with a pink cocktail umbrella]. We left the club at about 2am and there were no cabs left, but I never minded walking home, I liked to burn off the buzz. Half way home and Gina began to complain that she needed the loo really badly. She was desperate. Busting. So although it meant taking a short-cut through a really dodgy estate, I said we could probably use the loos on the platform at the railway station. By the time we got there I also wanted to go, and being faster on foot than she, I dashed into the only working cubicle. Big mistake. When I came out something terrible had happened. On platform 2 of the railway station there was a perfectly round cow-pat. Still steaming. Very odd because we were in town. And Gina must have been knocked over by the cow because she was crouching on the floor staggering to get up….
Oh happy days. No CCTV back then. Only the station manager to contend with.