The Corner House

The assignments are piling up thick and fast now so if I'm away from the blog world for a bit or not reading other people's posts or not replying to comments, please don't take it personally.
Mind you, I'm pretty addicted, I probably won't stay away for long.
Yesterday. Who's a clever girl then? We had to pair up to prepare stuff for a future presentation. And who have I paired up with? Blue Eyes.
Had a coffee with him, the other Golden Oldie, Jodie and a young lad called Hew. Hew is friendly with Jodie. I think they look similar, sort of both big, with high foreheads and glasses.
Today. My birthday. Bonnie treated me to a fry-up at the nearby Greasy Spoon. Heaven. Then we went shopping down the market.
Leopards and spots. Look, I just bought a few things to wear during the Autumn term. Honestly, nothing extravagant, nothing expensive, nothing inessential. I really need a blue silk scarf, it'll go with everything. And the cardi's were only a fiver each. The second-hand boots, well, I know there a bit big but what a bargain. Trainers? How can you pass over a pair of trainers for three quid. And I'm sure I'll get loads of wear out of that purply, floating cape thingy.
But horrors. I'm noticing that even a size 16 is getting a bit tight for me these days. I don't know, they must be making everything in some Chinese sweat-shop and cutting back on material. Oh, who am I trying to kid? What am I going to do?
Give up the fried breakfasts?

First of all, a little mention about Global Warming. Some people don't believe in it but I do. And the reason for this.
Today is my birthday. September 30th. Now for years it used to inevitably rain on September 30th. And for years I took this personally seeing it as some some terrible comment on my life to date and dreadful omen for the future. Until someone pointed out that it was late September, Autumn, Northern Hemisphere etc and that the rain had no connection whatsoever to my birthday.
Oh.
Only the last couple of years I don't think it's rained.
And today was glorious.

Quiet day. Half intended to start on my assignment but I've got until November. Also half intended to ring up the agency and see if there was anything happening at the Pork Packing Place. In the end though I opted for a quiet day. A bit of housework, a bit of dog-walking.
And a bit of celebrating. Ian's got a job. (He recently qualified as an engineer). And I've got my student loan.
So the three of us, Bonnie, The Wain and I, made a trip to Morrisons to buy alcohol and chocolate. And a few Pringles.
Bonnie doesn't drink wine, it gives her indigestion. So The Wain bought her a small, cheap bottle of vodka. At the till, I went into hysterics when I saw what the vodka was called - Morrinov. Morrison's own brand. I was just giggling away while the Cashier was adding up my wine, etc.
'Morrrinov. More reasons to shop at Morrinov's'.
The Cashier didn't find it funny.
'I bet they don't sell too many bottles of Morrinov' said Bonnie.
'I can assure you, we do' said the frosty-faced Cashier.
'On second thoughts, it's probably slightly better than pure meths' Bonnie decided.
I'd was just falling about.
'They've probably got a still out the back', I said and started humming the chorus of 'Whisky in the Jar'.
I mean, the possibilities are endless, aren't they? Add your own. I pointed out a few of the obvious - Glenmorrianjay. Jack Morriels. Morridans Dry Gin. A pint of Stella Morritois.
Bonnie had to apologize for me. 'And she's not even had a drink yet!'
Anyway when The Wain went to pay for said bottle, it was, indeed, pay-back time.
'Are you over 16?' the Cashier asked her.
The Wain's assured her she was. (She's 24).
'Are you sure? Because I can't serve you if your under age', and then, she added, giving me a very mean and accusing look, 'even if you are buying it for your Mum'
Wiped the smile off my face, I suppose.
More reasons not to shop at Morrisons.

see what happens when you drink too much.

Two women friends had gone for a girl's night out. Both were very
faithful and loving wives, however, they had gotten over-enthusiastic on
the Bacardi Breezers.
Incredibly drunk and walking home they needed to pee, so they
stopped in the cemetery. One of them had nothing to wipe with so she
thought she would take off her panties and use them. Her friend,
however was wearing a rather expensive pair of panties and did not
want to ruin them. She was lucky enough to squat down next to
a grave that had a wreath with a ribbon on it, so she proceeded to wipe with that.
After the girls did their business they proceeded to go home. The
next day one of the women's husbands was concerned that his normally
sweet and innocent wife was still in bed hung over,so he phoned the
other husband and said,"These girl nights have got to stop! I'm
starting to suspect the worst..my wife came home with no panties!!"
"That's nothing" said the other husband,
"Mine came back with a card stuck to her arse that said.....
'From all of us at the Fire Station. We'll never forget you.'"
____________________________________________________________

It might please Clare if I move.
Clare. One of my London friends. I had lots of friends in London but I did live there for fifteen years.
The 'boys' (Blondie, Maj and Ruby Tuesday) for when I was in 'fag-hag' mode. Leah and Reba who lived some distance away. And my three best friends, fellow 'East Enders', although none of us came from London - Clare, Layla and Delphine. I always thought of the four of us as Sex and the Inner City.
Layla and Delphine, I got on fine with. Clare was - well, problematical. We had a lot of rows but, as Bonnie says, who doesn't fall out with Clare.
It was Clare who introduced me to Bonnie, in the first place. When we became good friends, Clare wasn't too happy especially as she subsequently fell out with Bonnie. It's been years since they've spoken although they went to school together and were like sisters.
But Clare is, as I've said, difficult. She can be very insecure, jealous and not too trustworthy. I mean she's done some horrendous things in the past like leaving me stranded, on my own, for six days, in Venice, recommending a cowboy gardener who desecrated my garden, time and again disregarding prior arrangements if a better offer came along....
I think we stayed friends because I'm easy-going. I also think she misses me. She rang last night. Kept on about how much better it would be for me to study in London and what am I doing for Christmas. Is that an invitation, Clare? And how am I getting along with Bonnie, have we argued yet? And has Bonnie lost any weight?
'Why doesn't she tell you she misses you'? asked Bonnie, who's very open about her feelings.
'That's not Clare's style'.
We lived very near each other in London and were always round each others houses, or going to the pictures, or the Indian restaurant. Now I've got a new lifestyle that's occupying me but Clare hasn't. I'll pay her a visit next time I'm in 'the Smoke'.
Clare's not too thin heself but she revels in Bonnie's obesity. Poor Bonnie, it's not a flattering description but she is a 'big girl' and she's also diabetic. Her and Ian have a lot of rows over what she eats.
'One bar of chocolate won't kill me'.
'That's just it, Mum, it will'.
Last night they were rowing about him leaving the lights on.
'Will you please switch things off, son' said Bonnie, 'I'm on an economy drive. Just will you, please, switch things off'.
'Switch what off, Mum' asked Ian, 'your life support machine'.

Started the writing classes and was given homework. It might curtail my blogging activities. Don't know yet.
Two tutors, BR and then Jilly, his second-in-command. A pretty, fair-haired woman in a silky dress. Wearing glasses. She reminded somewhat of an old flat-mate of mine, but more pleasant.
I think she's sussed me out as a ninny. I mean, she knew I got lost last Friday and today I was wondering what session I belonged to.
'You're with us at 12 o'clock' said the plump Jodie.
'Am I?' I queried.
'You are' said Jilly, 'Now don't get lost again. I've got your card marked. Take her with you, Jodie, and look after her'.
How embarrassing.
So I sat and had a coffee with 3 of the young ones. Oh, they are babies. Talking baby talk. And their names. My year is full of Lucy's, Sophie's, Holly's, Hayley's, Matthew's, Daniel's, Marcus's, Sam's. Names that belong to recently born babies.
'You wouldn't really want to live in a hall of residence' said the Housing Lady over the phone. Because I was making enquiries. 'You'd find it very noisy, you certainly wouldn't like it. But we do have some shared houses that we let to mature students and post- graduates. Yes, there are places free - and I'm sure there will be after Christmas, too'.
I've sort of decided. I hate the commuting. I think I will stay with Bonnie until Christmas and then move here. It will be so much easier. I mean getting up at 6 to be here by 10? Ridiculous. Just hope I can make Bonnie see it's for the best. That I won't be too far away and we can meet up at weekends.
Hope she doesn't throw a wobbly and demand maintenance, half my pension and custody of.....well, what, now Bubb's gone? Roger Rabbit?

My course has officially started but not much has happened as yet apart from a drama class this morning so I'm finding plenty of time to sit in the Library and indulge my habit, I mean, hobby, of blogging.
Yesterday I got chatting to the other mature student, Blue Eyes. Chatting? I'd call him garrulous if I could spell it. In five minutes flat I'd heard about his divorce, his son's tax rebate, his views on Tony Blair, his opinion of Mrs Thatcher, how to apply for a Housing Association flat, the effects of cannabis smoking in the 60's compared to the effects of cannabis smoking today, the three-day week in the 70's, the Miners Strike in the 80's, the prices of property in Thamesmead, London, how he's given up studying for a part-time Drama degree in favour of doing full-time Single Honours in Creative Writing, Local Authorities, Disability Allowances, the advantages of cycling as a mode of transport, Uncle Tom Cobbley and all delivered in what I believe to be an Oldham accent. I'm beginning to differentiate - the Oldham accent being broader than the Manchester one.
He's a nice man. I sense a kindred spirit although I've never noticed that I have any views on anything in particular. But I do ride a bike.
I like him but I think my heart still belongs to Corin, the folk singer.
The lovely Layla is threatening to pay us all at the Corner House a visit, this weekend. She says that she's looking forward to the folk club but I know for a fact she dislikes folk music. I suspect the real reason she's coming is because she wants to be taken to see Madame Petulengro in Blackpool.
I was lamenting a bit to Bonnie.
'Corin's bound to fancy Layla' I said.
Bonnie agreed that he would as would all the old folkies. 'But not to worry' she added. 'Just wait till Layla starts talking - yes, Corin, I agree, Corin, is that so, Corin, you know anything by Celine Dion, Corin? I think your Mars is in Uranus. What do I think about Marx? Oh, I think it is has never been so good as it is now that Twiggy is in all the adverts!'

My friend, Layla's a dab hand at the hair dye and I don't know what I would have done without her this year. As any regular readers will know, I am living in reduced circumstances and gone are the days when I could spend 100 pound a month on highlights.
It's turned out a bit fag-ash blonde this time. Probably all that smoking that Layla did while she was applying the stuff. I never set out to be blonde, it sort of evolved after a couple of years as a redhead; anyway it's a bit darker than hitherto but I think it looks OK.

Layla. What she don't know about beauty treatments ain't worth knowing. She's 41 now but still a looker. Her Mother is an ex-Miss Trinidad and Tobago so that gives you some idea of the genes Layla's carrying around. A sort of Asian West Indian; think Diana Ross. She does a lot of starving and smoking to stay slim but that's Layla; the results are pure sex-bomb. I wonder, at times, if all the low-cut tops and short, short skirts prevent men from taking her seriously because (no more than mesel', as my old Mum would say), she hasn't had a relationship for years. Bonnie says it's not the revealing clothes that put men off, but the conversation inevitably turning to Layla's psychic powers - her seeing of spirits, chats with celestials, visions of vampires, burning of black candles, outings of ouija boards..... you get the picture.
While I'm at it, shall I tell any young ladies reading this, Layla's secret voodoo spell for getting a man to always love you (not that it's ever worked for her but still...) What you do, apparently, is, when making your favourite bloke a brew (tea, coffee whatever), (also it must be during that time of the month), you surreptiously sneak a drop of your own menstrual blood into the cup first. A spoonful of sugar....? Probably.
I've heard that a lot of Caribbean men do not like to accept drinks off their womenfolk unless they're in the kitchen while the said drinks are being prepared.
Devil Woman. Now, despite Layla's image, she seldom 'puts out' as the American's say. She really is all hearts and flowers and piles of Mills and Boon novels. I believe it's the silly, romantic, idealistic women who end up as old spinsters crying for their cats(!), the practical ones just get on with finding a potential mate and settling down.
Layla's currently pining after a man at work - St John. He's a rich, property developer and I think he's just playing some sort of cat and mouse game with her. He flirts in the office, texts her but he's engaged to somebody else. He ruined her birthday do by not turning up when he said he would but that's par for the course; there was no sign of him at my Leaving London party either. She says she's looking for another job where she won't keep seeing him and hoping. 'Wishing and hoping....'
I'm digressing as normal. The whole purpose of this post is to write about another, much deeper, achingly, achingly painful kind of a lust and longing; omigod, to misquote one of the greatest of love poets, Robert Burns, just to see them, was to love them, love but them and love forever..... no mere mortal could ever kindle such deep desire in my post-menopausal heart. Gimme, gimme, gimme.
I think, I could be wrong but I think that someone called Karen Mueller designed them. A vibrant, floral pattern, a sort of fuchsia and lime shade, they tied together in a bow around the ankle and had a silver bit on the instep, all on top of dangerously high, serialkiller heels. I tell you even Cinderella would have been unfaithful to that glass slipper if she'd seen these ultra-fabulous shoes of Layla's.
'No, Prince Charming, that's not my shoe at all, why, these are my shoes.......'
There was even a fuchsia and lime patterned floral top to wear with them.
And St John hadn't bothered to turn up so the whole concoction was wasted.
I want those shoes.
Get a grip, Maureen. Your a mature student, an intellectual blue-stocking who should be walking around the campus in confortable trainers. You'd only stick out and look sillier than you do already in such footwear. And you'd never, ever stand a chance with any self-respecting Marxist....
How long before I get my student loan? Surely it'll stretch to a pair of......

Anyway, after Cousin H's initial rant was over and he had time to digest that I was receiving a student loan, he appeared to accept my latest foray into the academic world. He seemed to think, in fact, that I, somehow, at my advanced age, had got one over on the British Government!
Poor Mairead. She has about nine months, she thinks. She seems to accept it. Wants to be buried in Co Mayo, beside her older brother. I saw a sick woman but couldn't help remembering H's quiet girlfriend; a mane of long, black hair she had back then, before age and chemotherapy changed it, and she was always nervous, like an easily-startled horse. They were from the same village in Ireland but he only started going out with her in London. I don't know if she ever really settled in London, in a place and culture so alien to her. Some Irish people don't; did my own Mother?
Then I remembered days long gone, when we were all young and living around Kilburn. A bit Seven Brides for Seven Brothers it was, all the O'Looney's courting the women whom they would or would not marry. As well as H and Mairead, there was Padraic and Ellen, Ned and Lynne, Jim and Norah. And Brendan who loved Ellen's glamorous, younger sister but married a much plainer and duller woman. Joe, baffled and bewildered by it all, had a nervous breakdown and his brothers sent him home, where he's remained ever since, a country bachelor. Another brother, Nick, chased by loads of women, stayed resolutely single because he cared, most of all, for 'the glass'.
And I too was in love with my own hard-drinking, gambling Irish charmer, Christy, his name was and he broke my heart when he married an Australian nurse.
Mind you, it was to my Mum's considerable relief!

Leave

Why do the deceased get in touch with the living?' - Gordon Smith, a psychic answered 'They make contact to take away their loved ones' pain and pass on a message of hope'.
It was in this month's 'Spirit and Destiny' which I didn't buy, honest. I've been visiting my friend, Layla and it belongs to her. I came here earlier today, after leaving my cousin's. Layla and I had another of our 'tea and tarot card' sessions. Just like old times. Then she put a hair-dye on for me, she's good at hairdressing. Which reminds me - time to wash it off.

A quick update on Bonnie's love life. 'Cos if I leave it, it will have changed again and I'll never catch up.
Farmer's Lad who swore undying love and wanted to marry her? Less than a week later he phoned to say there was no real spark in their relationship and it was over!
She didn't seem too bothered but is upset when I mention moving nearer to the uni. Bonnie really is not a person who likes to be alone. She has the Wain and the Kids living with her but I'm her friend and it's different.
I hope she meets someone. Millionaire is keen but she says he's just a player who will always have loads of women She's decided against being on some reality-type TV show in case her students see her.
Gypsy Petulengro foresaw love for both of us. But that's a fortune-teller's job. 'Two tall, dark handsome stranger's.....' She didn't exactly use those words but you get my drift.

News fron London.
Not good either. Poor Mairead, she's sitting up, talking, doesn't look too terrible. But she's dying. They've given her about 9 months. She's talking about going back to Ireland for a week or two if she can. I hope she can.
Everything seems so brutal and final.
My cousin, H O'Looney hit the roof when I told him I had gone back to full-time study. It's the reaction that I'll get from all of the O'Looney's but they can take a running jump. Did any one of them offer to look after my cat for me? No.
'School. At your age. Oh, if your father was alive. You had a great job and you gave it up. School! And how much will that cost?'
He shut up a bit when I said I was getting about 100 pound a week from a student loan. Well, it may or may not be that much but still.
Mairead is 52. Nearly two years younger than me.
You get what you get.

Right. Bonnie's computer is so rubbish. I don't know. It's too slow and gets on my nerves. So I am not replying to any posts/comments tonight because it will take too long.
Just a quick post. I am in a bit of a mood and tired.
Three hours on the train! It's not feasible, it's really not. Bonnie keeps trying to persuade me to stay, mentioning that I can't afford to leave. Which I probably can't. But three hours there and three hours back!
However. Today. Things looking up. A bit. Corin may have serious competition. Found out that there are two more mature students on my course. Both Male. And one was very handsome. The most beautiful blue eyes. A bit bonkers, another Marxist, but nice eyes....
Today was the walk in the country for observational purposes. Cow Pat Hill or somesuch. I thought I'd enrolled on Creative Writing not Outward Bound....
My shoes were sensible but not that sensible. I ended up ankle-deep in mud! Then I cut myself on barbed wire. Still, chatting to Blue Eyes and not too concerned.
Did the observing at the top of the hill. Confession. I am not too good at observation. It doesn't come naturally. So I concentrated and tried hard. Mostly I observed how the boys did all sorts of adventurous stuff, climbed to tops of rocks, went into fenced-off areas while the girls sat around nicely.
It was a 'bonding exercise' and I bonded a bit, I thought. Could Blue Eyes be a potential? Some of the young ones are nice to me, too. Jodie always speaks and some of the lads. Jodie - a big girl, long brown hair, high forehead, glasses. But young, pretty enough. A bit like me at that age except I was never fat. Not then. When I was young, older women would smile fondly at me and now I find I do it to young women. It's - I don't know - a sort of, once I was like you, young and attractive with my whole life ahead and everything's exciting and new, and, my God, enjoy it while it lasts because it's gone in a flash. Something along those lines.
I didn't mention the poet. We were given a talk by some poet. A real poet. I was dead impressed by him. Another one from 'my generation'. Long hair and a beard. He'd come with a rock band to perform in Cow Pat, fell in love with a local girl, married her and lived there ever since. How romantic is that. And he wrote good poetry. And spoke with a London-ish accent. Which I though was great. A wordsmith who can dispense with RP. So, if you write proppa, you don't have to talk proppa.
Where was I? On the top of Cow Pat Hill. I was one of the last to descend and somehow got left behind. What a nightmare? I managed to get lost again. One minute I was with everyone, the next I was alone in the middle of a swampy field and it was bucketing down. Had to crawl underneath a fence to get back out of the field. All roads lead to? Luckily a dog-walking woman directed me to the village hall.
As for BR. I thought he was Scottish but listening to him today, no, he's Irish. So, he's got me marked down not only as hysterical but also a Fenian bitch prone to getting lost.
Journey home. I can't even go there. Train delayed by half-an-hour then missing my stop because I was reading the paper.
Bonnie thinks I should persist with this commuting hell.
We sat on her bed, me, her, the Wain, the dog. No cat. Of course, I still miss him and I laugh sometimes but I'm crying myself to sleep every night.
Was describing the Freshers Bazaar thing I went to the other day.
'So there's one lot saying don't go to War, Troops Out etc. and then there's another lot trying to get students to join the Army. I mean, I'm definitely on the anti-Iran thing'.
'Anti-where'?
'Iran, Iraq, wherever it is, I'm against it. But then I saw an advert to join the TA? 30 pounds a day, do you think they'd accept me?'
Bonnie and the Wain went into hysterics.
'No they bloody wouldn't. They don't want 53 year olds for a start. And how could they send you anywhere without you getting lost? You'd be moaning about a three-hour march. Ooh, and Sergeant, this hand granade just won't fit into my handbag, and do I really have to wear khaki, it doesn't suit me and what's wrong with high heels instead of combat boots and...
Ah, shutup!

Money.
It isn't that important. It won't bring my cat back.
Still. Managed to get the train into Manchester without buying a ticket. I hate doing that, it's nerve-wracking.
Then, with an old passport photo 'cos I haven't got 3 pounds 50 for a new one, I got myself a weekly travel pass. 50 quid. S'alright, I paid by cheque. The bank won't be best pleased.
Anyway, queued up for something called 'The Hardship Fund' later this afternoon. Sounds quite Dickensian, doesn't it. They've lent me 120 pounds until my student loan comes through.
120 pounds. I used to earn roughly that in one night.
I'm living in reduced circumstances and will just have to become accustomed to them.
This idea of going to university came very much from Bonnie. She's got everyone she knows taking degrees in this, that and the other. Not the Wain, though. As yet.
Then again, it was also something that I've always wanted to do.
The travelling isn't too practical though. I told Bonnie who agreed that a 3-hour commute is not feasible but she was upset because I might be moving out.
'We're getting divorced' she said, 'boo-hoo'.
I said I'll stay here until Christmas.
One of her arguments for student life was that I might as well take advantage of the relatively low rent she's charging me and do something constructive. She didn't expect me to choose a course so far away.
'I'm 60 pounds in debt already' one of the young students in the Hardship Fund queue told me.
60 pounds.
60 pounds.
I must be something like 6 thousand pounds in debt. I don't know, I daren't look. Plus my mortgage.
Oh, sod it, I'll get by.
My lovely cat was worth more than any amount of money.

Dramatis Personae:
Bonnie, a Scottish Widow, my Landlady and Friend
Ian, her son, a sort of Mancunian Braveheart and Golden Labrador mix.
Gabriella, his glamorous Italien-Canadian fiancee.
The Wain, Bonnie's niece, who resembles Saffy in Ab-Fab (same character but she looks more like Liza Minelli in Cabaret).

Apart from Educating Renee, what else has been happening in The Corner House?
Last night, the Wain came back from America and went to sleep off her jet-lag. Bonnie was out, spending a platonic evening with Millionaire, Gabrielle was at work and Ian was in the kitchen, doing a stir-fry. I was on the phone to my friend, Lemonie, telling her about my new life as a mature student.
'Honestly, Lems, I'm stuck there with a load of teenagers. It's horrific, you know what teenagers are like. They're so loud, always shrieking and hollering and giggling'.
'Yer tea's ready' Ian calls out.
It was delicious. Relaxed with an ouzo or two afterwards. Well, I am still grieving for my beautiful Bubbles.
The Wain got up, Gabriella returned from work and Bonnie, true to her word, returned from Millionaire's pad (like the good girl she isn't).
Now I wanted to know how her evening had went.
'I think that last Tarot reading you did for me was right' said Bonnie, 'because he certainly seems keen. And we had a lovely evening, he made curry then we watched a video of La Traviata'. (Millionaire's an opera buff).
Bonnie continued, 'He was really put out because I wouldn't stay the night. And he can't understand why I'm not jealous of all his other women'. She thought for a bit then went on, 'Don't they make you laugh! All this talk about Free Love but he still wants me to be jealous of him.
There's more. Millionaire, is after all, a millionaire with fingers in many pies. Apparently he's become involved in the making of a TV documentary about Internet dating and wants Bonnie to appear in it.
'So I can be on the telly if I agree' she said.
I just fell on the floor in a fit of laughter. 'Ha-ha, hee-hee' singing 'he's gonna put me in the movies and splutterring '15 minutes of fame'.
Ian just looked at me.
'What were you saying earlier, Mo, to your friend on the phone? About teenagers being loud and hollering and shrieking and giggling.'
'Alright, Ian, point taken' I conceded. 'Except it's worse when middle-aged women are loud and holler and shriek and giggle. 'Cos they wet themselves as well! Tee-hee-hee-hee-hee.'

The Wain had a great holiday. She brought pressies, a star-fish necklace for me, an Ellis Island mug for Bonnie, a pink, fluffy collar for Fizz.
You should have seen Fizz's face. That dog is so girly. She just sat there in her new collar with a very coy, aren't I pretty expression.
At least there's Fizz. The ouzo was starting me off, crying over the cat, again.
Bonnie reminded me we'd both heard that distinctive miouw a few days ago.
'I'm pretty down-to-earth' she said 'but I'm sure that was his way of saying goodbye and telling us he's happy'.
My psyche is so Catholic. I more or less believe in an afterlife. It can't be just for humans. I don't care what the Catholic Church has to say about Muslims, abortion, contraception et al but how can they say animals don't have souls? Animals are all soul.

Can you believe it? The Lecturer that I shouted at yesterday. Turns out he's the Head of the Creative Writing Department.
He's going to hate me, isn't he? I mean, he was quite polite but he's obviously got me marked down as a tantrum-throwing lunatic.
Apart from that?
Well. I've done lots of studying but mostly part-time. Usually there's a few other part-timers around my age. But now....
Oh Lord. They are all average age 18. All of them. And then there's me. I thought there might be one or two mature ones. Nah.
I really was in two minds whether I should stay or not. Apart from missing my cat, I have serious financial problems that a Student Loan won't improve.
Just felt this is silly and I look silly. One little minx gawped at me, mouth agape, like I was some sort of exhibit.
I'll just have to adopt a batty old bird persona for the whole three years. Easy enough.
Will I be really lonely? I mean who am I going to be friends with? A couple of the Security Guards have been quite chatty and that's about it.
And the commuting? Not very feasible. If I continue living here, I'll be spending around six hours a day on the train. As good as.
Oh dear.
Drama. Fine. Run by a Screaming Queen. I know I spent the last eleven years on the night-shift in a printing press but before that I was always hanging round theatres. I'll like the drama and I might learn to direct. Maureen Rowntree - Director. Maureen Rowntree's critically acclaimed production of 'The Playboy of the Western World', the definitive J. M. Synge, Sold Out, West End Hit, the famous theatre director, Miss Maureen Rowntree, while dining out at 'The Ivy' last night, with her latest toy-boy, David Tennant, was interrupted by what appeared to be a low-life drunken stalker. Police were called but Miss Rowntree decided not to press charges against the gentleman, an Ernest Lee, who claimed to be from 'Victoria Park' but on further investigation was dicovered to be living in Hackney whatever upmarket name he chose to give it. Mr Lee, who bears a strong resemblance to John Prescott, only uglier, said he just wanted to propose to Miss Rowntree and tell her he had made a terrible mistake all those years ago and that he had really loved her all along.....
Where was I?
Well, I mentioned the Creative Writing. And how I'd probably blown it.
BR, the above-mentioned Head of the thing, and some female sidekick, started to describe the course. A few favourite books got mentioned. Famous writers wot 'ad visited got mentioned. This Friday got mentioned - a coach trip to some scenery that has to be looked at and described.
And I'm listening. And I'm not thinking at all. I'm just feeling. I'm feeling, like, this is what the Gypsy was referring to, this is so right for me, this is where I'm meant to be.
Who cares if BR likes me, who cares what the young students think. It's been a long time coming, a hard journey, going round in tortuous circles, up and down dead ends, cut off by myriad brick walls, but now, finally, I've arrived at the place where I've always belonged.

Just to get off the topics of deceased cats and degree courses for a bit, and somewhat inspired by lonemum's blog, copy of e-mails between myself and Antipodean friend recounting my trip to the States with a teenage, Nigella Lawson lookalike.

From: "xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
" xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
To: xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: RE: New York, New York
Date: Fri, 24 Feb 2006 17:25:00 +0000

You don't have to reply till you get to the Cayman Islands but you will have to write up your trip to New York with Nigella, (Can't see her as Juni.) It would come out really well as stand up. I mean she probably had all these cooking programmes on her mind.

Must Go. Good luck in the Caymans.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: "xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
" xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
To: xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx
Subject: RE: New York, New York
Date: Thu, 23 Feb 2006 15:36:09 +0000

Maria

I actually tried ringing you the other night. I had just returned from New York. Sounds glam, but has to have been the worst five days of my life.

Foolishly, two years ago I promised my friend's daughter, Juni (remember - Nigella?), that I would take her to New York when she was 16. It seemed a long way off at the time!

She was vile. She was always a brat even as a toddler. I know teenagers are difficult but I honestly think it's more than that and I really do not like Juni and she does not like me and to be marooned with her in Manhatten.... All she wanted to do was drink, smoke and play pool with her new-found New York friends. Of course, I knew all along she'd be jailbait and it would be difficult. But she was so absolutely nasty to me and charm personified with everyone else. They all fell in love with her. I just think she's a manipulative cow. Then she caught flu on the last day. In a way it was a blessing in disguise because it kept her in the hotel room. Your not supposed to drink in New York until your 21. Not that she couldn't drink me under the table, (Amaretto and Diet-Coke, before she moved on to cocktails, and who's paying?) - it's just I had visions of us being hauled off in handcuffs and me never making it to the Cayman Islands. Then, the return journey, a 12-hour flight, change in Frankfurt, with a sick 16-year old. "I hate foreign people" her views about the German airport staff. I left her asleep on some airport chairs while I went off to fetch her Macdonalds; despite being at Death's door she still managed to feebly order "a quarter-pounder, large fries, barbecue sauce, a large Sprite". A large Sprite - is that with Amaretto or would you prefer Arsenic?

When I got back with said meal, she'd moved from where I'd left her and I nearly had a heart-attack thinking she'd been lured off to a brothel in Thailand or somewhere. Thank God, she'd just decided another, obscure corner of the departure lounge was more comfy.

I was so pleased when I put her on the train back to Nottingham. Her sister was to meet her. "Are you still friends?" asked Emma, who knows what she's like. When Juni heard that I'd told Emma we'd fallen out she was suddenly all Marilyn Monroe lip wobbles and "you told Emma we weren't friends". Then she was kissing me goodbye and thanking-me for taking her to New York but I don't trust her, I think that was about her being scared in case I told her Mum what a bitch she was.

Oh well, it's over. Thank the Lord. You know something? I am so pleased I had a cat instead of a baby.

As for the Cayman Islands, I fly out on 4th March. I am dead busy getting ready, it's chaos and so much to do. Which, of course, is why I'm sitting faffing about in the Internet cafe.

The only nice thing that happened in New York was getting chatted-up in lift by handsome, Hispanic-looking man. It was early and I was popping out to buy bread thinking we could have toast for breakfast as the hotel room had a kitchen. As if... "I don't eat toast", said Nigella. "Would you prefer the buffet breakfast?". At 12 dollars a time, of course she would. Sorry, I'm just going to have flashbacks about that trip forever. Anyway, your a bit limited as to what you can say to someone in a lift although I suspect Nigella would have cracked it. God, I am so shy with men, it's a wonder I ever managed any sort of relationship, ever. Now, if I'd met him in the Caymans, after two bottles of wine....

Did I mention that I left the press on relatively good terms with Ern? Don't get me wrong, not that good! Now he's trying to wangle an invitation to my leaving London party.

The thing is now that I'm single and exciting again he finds me interesting. But the minute I'm back with him I'm no longer that single, exciting person.

Arsehole.

I'm off to do some typing practice. I told the Cayman Islands Employment Agency that I could type 80 wpm.

Mo

Got off to a great start didn't I? Oh, Gawd.
It's a trek to the campus. Two train journeys and one bus-ride. Yes. Can I really do three years of such commuting not to mention the expense?
Never mind, I got where they told me to be, bright and early, 8.45 am for 9.30 am.
Then, the Receptionist told me I needed the other campus, 15 mins away.
Took her word for it and got to where I thought I should be, revised version. I mean, I know this is where everything will happen, I was told this at the interview but I was also told to enrol at the other place.
Long story short. Ern used to say that. It means nothing.
Now sent on another goose chase all over this campus. For some reason everyone thought I should be in the Sports Centre. Me! Sports Centre? Yes, I know I make the Gym, now and then, but it's mostly for the sauna.
'Follow me' some Jock lecturer moving up and down stairs at the speed of light.
I'm 53 and my jeans are too tight and my shoes look good but hurt and I couldn't keep up.
And I'm grieving desperately for my cat. The tears aren't coming all day now but they're still coming.
'This man, he'll help.....'
Turns out I should have remained at the first campus where I was two hours ago. What was that Receptionist playing at, sending me all the way over here, and everyone I'd asked since, colluding in it.
Normally, I wouldn't say boo to a goose. Only every now and again, I lose it and throw a hissy fit.
'Bloody academics', I screamed at the lecturer who'd only being trying to help, 'they couldn't organise a piss-up in a brewery'.
He took umbrage at that. Assured me he was perfectly capable of....
Naturally, I didn't want to be thrown out before I'd even started. Decided the best bet was to burst into tears. (The Feminists can get lost).
'I'm sorry, my cat's just died and I was up at 6, and I don't need any more stress.....'
Yes, I did eventually enrol. But, obviously, the students and staff all thought they had a mad woman in their midst and gave me a wide berth. Queing up, filling in forms, having a coffee, I just couldn't stop crying and thinking about Bubbles.
Poor little thing. I just feel I didn't take care of him properly. I encouraged him to go out. He was such an alley cat in London, always out. But there was a garden and a back lane in London. I was stupid thinking he'd walk down the side road here to the green bits instead of trying to cross the main road. He was a very clever cat but he wasn't a member of Mensa.
And I'm a university student and as thick as bricks.
Train ride back.
Passed all the green fields and countryside. But my inner city home was a much safer place for my cat.

First day of my degree course. I'd been looking forward to it but, when the alarm rang at 6 am, I just woke up to that awful sick feeling I've had in my stomach ever since I've known about the cat's death.
Oh, well. Put on my jeans and the new jumper Bonnie bought for me, tied a pink scarf round my hair to hide my roots, looked in the mirror and thought I wasn't in too bad nick for 53.
53! And a first-year student. Felt ridiculous. At my age I should be looking after grand-children like my friend, Lemonie.
It's not as if it's my first foray into the world of education either. Far from it. A librarianship qualification in my twenties, drama school in my thirties, the OU Arts Foundation Course and a stint at London Metropolitan University in my forties. I achieved a Certificate of Higher Education at the latter, in Irish Studies and English. Another 3 years part-time and I'd have got my BA.
Then again, 3 years full-time in my fifties and I'll get it anyway.
'Nothing she does ever comes to anything'. A nasty comment some evil old crow once made about me. I was only about 32 then.
An eternal student.
What else would I be doing? Packing meat.

Took Fizz for a walk.
I was always a dog person until Bubbles. All my dogs lived to be old, so I just assumed Bubbs would too.
Picked a few blackberries. 'And I'm gonna be a country girl again.'
Came home. Bonnie thought a DVD of 'Calamity Jane' would be a good idea and it was. Did a bit of ironing while I watched it.
The kids cooked a lovely meal. Soup, then chicken. Of course, the chicken set me off. Chicken was Bubbles' favourite.
Farmer's Lad wants to fix me up with his friend. Even Bonnie thinks it's a bad idea.
'He's so uncouth, an ex-squaddie, he's so not you...'
'Mind you, he owns two houses, one here and one in Spain. But he's just not you....'
She thought a bit more 'If he was a dog he'd be a Staff.... no way is he your type'.
I got a bit interested in the men as dogs idea.
'What would the folk singer be?'
She thought a bit 'Oh, definitely a Spaniel'.
'Ern'?
'Ern? A Jack Russell. And Guy was a superior Afghan hound'.
She'd got into it by now. 'Farmer's Lad - he's like my late husband, a faithful collie'.
And Ian.
'Ian? S'easy. He's a big, soppy Golden Labrador'.

Spent the entire day yesterday just moping around and crying. Bonnie tried to help; she brought me a new jumper and a lipstick. She's supposed to be economizing!
Tea and sympathy round the kitchen table when we both (distinctly) heard a 'miouw' at the door. We jumped up, opened it and looked out. Absolutely no sign of a cat anywhere.
Bonnie insisted she heard it.
'So did I'.
Whenever I grieved in the past (my parents, my sister's baby) there were always 'signs'. You never really know if you imagine them or not but they bring a bit of comfort at the time. And my friend, Jen, who swears she saw her dead husband standing in her kitchen, and and my late cousin's wife. Joe, my cousin, died last Christmas and his wife said, that soon after, she was alone in the house, lying on the sofa, when someone or something tapped her 3 times on the shoulder and she really felt Joe's presence in the room.
Why should it be any different when an animal dies?
Bonnie had planned to spend the night with Farmer's Lad. She was a bit reluctant to leave me but I thought it was the best thing. I was no fit sort of company for anyone, anywhere.
Ian and Gabriella went shopping and came back with tons of mostly impractical food. Bucketloads of fruit and veg which is fine but it'll have to be eaten quick. All I managed last night was Gabriella's macaroni cheese washed down with 3 glasses of red wine. Went to bed early and slept a disturbed and fretful sleep. Some news thing about Fidel Castro and how he refused the gift of a dog (think they said dog) because 'you only get attached to them, then they die on you'.
It's awful, and the O'Looneys would be aghast, but I cried more for my cat than I did for my cousiin, Joe. But I'm a single woman and for the last five years the cat was the most consistent companion in my life; I saw him every single day (apart from the Cayman Islands episode) and slept with him most nights.
Bonnie back this morning. Very happy, Farmer's Lad more-or-less-proposed and suggested they both move to Canada, to be near Ian and Gabriella (who, so far, show no signs of moving to Canada permanently).
She likes him, she fancies him, she think's he is a good man who will care for her and not a heartbreaker.
'He's a lot like my Tom was' she said.
Yes. The only fly-in-the-ointment (and, again, it was an issue with Tom), Farmer's Lad seems to have some sort of problem re sex. Basically, despite the idyllic evening, there was no nookie. Now this is unlike any man I've ever known. And Bonnie, who has such a high sex drive.....
'But he's a decent man and will treat me well'.
Being so sensible, however, she thinks she needs to know him a lot longer before marrying him. I mean, I realise I will have to move into the Halls of Residence when Bonnie re-marries but I don't think it was complete self-interest when I told her to wait a bit. The sex thing could be a problem or it could just resolve itself when he feels more secure.
Conversation came back to Bubbles.
Bonnie insisted that she's a down-to-earth woman but that she definitely heard a 'miouw' yesterday.
We started to imagine him in some sort of cat heaven.
'They probably give the cats jobs in in the Lottery department'.
'Yes, but maybe he's only a humble clerk to start with. Maybe he has to work his way up to manager before he has a say in me winning it'.
'True. They are cats, remember. They'll be evil in their decision-making, you know, oh, let's give it to him, he's a bad bastard, let's give it to them, they don't need it.... that sort of thing'.
Suppose. Like 'Don't give it to my poor old Mum until she's in the 70's and can't possibly enjoy it. After all, she only fed me delicious chicken intermittently and some days I was even reduced to eating dried cat food'.
Oh, Bubbsy-Bubbles, I loved you.

What? Me? Extract from Juno and the Paycock by Sean O' Casey.
I don't care if Bubbles was only a cat, this speech is getting close to what I've felt like all day. Isn't it something we have writers and poets who can put our feelings into words.

Mrs. Boyle: I forgot, Mary, I forgot; your poor oul' selfish mother was only thinkin' of herself. No, no, you mustn't come -- it wouldn't be good for you. You go on to me sisther's an' I'll face th' ordeal meself. Maybe I didn't feel sorry enough for Mrs. Tancred when her poor son was found as Johnny's been found now -- because he was a Diehard! Ah, why didn't I remember that then he wasn't a Diehard or a Stater, but only a poor dead son! It's well I remember all that she said -- an' it's my turn to say it now : What was the pain I suffered, Johnny, bringin' you into the world to carry you to your cradle, to the pains I'll suffer carryin' you out o' the world to bring you to your grave! Mother o' God, Mother o' God, have pity on us all! Blessed Virgin, where were you when me darlin' son was riddled with bullets, when me darlin' son was riddled with bullets? Sacred Heart o' Jesus, take away our hearts o' stone, and give us hearts o' flesh! Take away this murdherin' hate, an' give us Thine own eternal love!

Thought I'd do VirginBlog's List to take my mind of things. I've read a few posts but don't feel like 'talking' to anyone just yet.

1. (x) Smoked a cigarette.
2. () Crashed a friend’s car.
3. () Stolen a car.
4. (x) Been in love.
5. (x) Been dumped
6. () Shoplifted.
7. (x ) Been fired/laid off.
8. () Been in a fist fight.
9. (x) Snuck out of your parent’s house
10. (x) Had feelings for someone that didn’t have them back
11. () Been arrested
12. (x) Gone on a blind date.
13. (x) Lied to a friend
14. (x) Skipped school
15. (x) Seen someone die
16. (x) Been to Canada.
17. () Been to Mexico.
18. (x) Been on a plane.
19. () Purposely set a part of yourself on fire
20. (x) Eaten sushi
21. (x) Been skiing
22. () Met someone in person from the internet.
23. (x) Taken pain-killers
24. (x) Love someone or miss someone right now.
25. (x) Laid on your back and watched cloud shapes go by
26. () Made a snow angel
27. (x) Had a tea party.
28. (x) Flown a kite.
29. (x) Built a sand castle.
30. (x) Gone puddle jumping
31. (x) Played dress up
32. (x) Cheated while playing a game
33. (x) Been lonely
34. (x) Fallen asleep at work/school.
35. () Used a fake I.D
36. (x) Watched a sunset.
37. ( ) Felt an earthquake.
38. (x) Touched a snake
39. (x) Slept beneath the stars
40. (x) Been tickled.
41. (x) Been robbed.
42. (x) Been misunderstood
43. (x) Petted a reindeer/goat
44. (x) Won a contest. Does a raffle count?
45. (x) Ran a red light. Yes, but only on my bike.
46. () Been suspended from school.
47. () Been in a car accident
48. (x) Eaten a whole pint of ice cream in one night. Easy.
49. (x) Had deja vu.
50. (x) Danced in the moonlight.
52. (x) Liked the way you looked
53. () Witnessed a crime.
54. () Questioned your heart
55. (x) Been obsessed with post it notes.
56. (x) Squished barefoot through the mud
57. (x) Been lost.
58. (x) Been to the opposite side of the country.
59. (x) Swam in the ocean
60. (x) Felt like dying.
61. (x) Cried yourself to sleep
62. (x) Played cops and robbers.
63. (x) Recently colored with crayons
64. () Sung karaoke.
65. (x) Paid for a meal with only coins - no, but gone shopping in supermarket.
66. (x) Done something you told yourself you wouldn’t.
67. (x) Laughed until some kind of beverage came out your nose.
68. (x) Caught a snowflake on your tongue
69. (x) Danced in the rain
70. (x) Written a letter to Santa Claus
71. (x) Been kissed under the mistletoe
72. (x) Watched the sun rise with someone you care about
73. (x) Blown bubbles.
74. () Made a bonfire on the beach.
75. (x) Crashed a party.
76. (x) Gone roller-skating
77. (x) Had a wish come true.
78. (x) Worn pearls
79. () Jumped off a bridge.
80. () Ate dog/cat food
81. () Told a complete stranger you loved them.
82. (x) Kissed a mirror.
83. (x) Sang in the shower.
84. (x) Had a dream that you married someone.
85. (x) Glued your hand to something.
86. () Got your tongue stuck to a flagpole
87. () Kissed a fish
88. (x) Sat on a rooftop
89. (x) Screamed at the top of your lungs.
90. () Done a one-handed cartwheel.
91. () Talked on the phone for more than six hours on one occasion.
92. (x) Stayed up all night
93. (x) Didn’t take a shower for a week.
94. (x) Picked and ate an apple right off the tree.
95. (x) Climbed a tree that had a tree house.
96. (x) Been told by a complete stranger that you’re hot.
97. (x) Ever had a one night stand.
98. (x) Ever missed someone so much it still hurts to think of them.
99. (x) Ever loved someone that you knew wouldn’t love you back.
100 (x) Ever been to a professional football, or tennis game in a stadium ground
101.(x) Went hiking in the mountains.
102.(x) Smoked a cigar.
103.(x) Had a crush on someone you worked with but never told them.
104. (x) Wished you had the chance to change your profession.
105. (x) Ever cremated and kept the ashes of a pet you cared a lot about
106. (x) Wished you could live your life over again beginning at age 21.(have since you put the idea in my head)
107. (x) Been baptized?
108. (x) Rode a horse
109. () Sent flowers to someone you never met

Was just off to catch the bus to London. Thought I'd pop into the nearby newsagent's with a copy of my Missing Cat poster first.
'Yeah, leave it in window, no, I won't charge you for that. Mind you, Bluetack's 50 pence'
The newsagent laughed and handed me some. I was outside, thinking where best to put poster when...
'Was it a black-and-white cat'?
'Yes'.
'I'm sorry. Bad news, I'm afraid' I went back into the shop and he told me his wife had seen a black-and-white cat, last Sunday, get run over by a bus.
I just knew it was Bubbles.
How many black-and-white cats are there?
I shouldn't have moved him here. Delphine told me. Too near a busy main road.
'I should never have left London' I said to Bonnie. 'He loved his garden there, his territory'.
But there was no-one I could leave him with. Violet, down the road, would have had him but she had that fierce dog and couldn't. Sal, next-door, was a bit half-hearted 'if it didn't work out with my Peterborough friend, maybe...' Well, it didn't work out in Peterborough but it didn't work out in the Cayman Islands either. So me and Bubbs ended up here.
'He was happy....'Bonnie tried to console me but I was, and am, inconsolable. I even smoked one of Ian's cigarettes, first cigarette I've had for about 10 years.
End of trip to London. Phoned Mairead. Tried to sound upbeat, poor woman dying of cancer. Told her what had happened. Like, that really will cheer her up. She said she understood. Promised I'd get there next weekend.
I had no choice but leave my house, my job in London. Eleven years working nights as a proofreader, ex-boyfriend as a boss, all just to pay my mortgage, I was so miserable.
And my poor Bubbles. The little sick kitten I found in Ireland, nursed through cat flu.
'He's a lucky cat' they said, and even people who didn't like cats, liked Bubbles. But his luck ran out last Sunday.
'It's because I don't go to Church' I said.
Bonnie dismissed this. 'Those bloody Catholics, they get you for life. What sort of God lets a cat get run over because its owner doesn't go to Church? Not one I'd want to believe in'.
She's right. Feel that life is a very existentialist, arbitrary sort of condition. And pity help you if you ever love another living creature.

This is really the final post until Monday, this time I mean it. But must mention last night's dinner.
On my break, at t'mill, I mean, meat factory and in the staff canteen where I ordered fish, chips and mushy peas. Then, to my immense astonishment, the assistant asked 'Would you like gravy with that'?
I think I must have said yes out of some sense of appalled curiosity, not in a million years believing anyone capable of putting gravy on fish and chips.
When I told Bonnie, she wasn't a bit surprised.
'Remember, your in Lancashire now. They always put gravy on their chips in Lancashire. You get used to it'.
Eee bah gum, ecky thump.
Sorry.

Very last post (for now), mean it this time.
It's on a more topical and sombre note.
Re: Pope Benedict upsetting the Muslims. Hirstzegang (or somesuch name) has done a whole post (on this blogsite) of the Pope's controversial speech. At least, I think that was what it was, I was a bit too impatient earlier to read it properly.
Anyway, came home from work and was watching the news with Bonnie.
'I dunno' I said, 'those Muslims, I dunno....'
It's not that I'm prejudiced or anti-Muslim or anything. I mean, row with cousin's wife, as mentioned in my previous post, was all about me sticking up for the suicide bombers. Not that I'm recommending suicide bombing either but... oh, leave it, I'll explain another time.
'I just dunno' I repeated. 'Those Muslims. They should, I dunno, they should lighten-up a bit'.
'Lighten-up a bit' repeated Bonnie. 'That has to be the understatement of the year'.
I ignored her.
'Everyone's shit-scared of them. They're such bullies'.
'Mind you' I continued, 'wouldn't it make a great comedy routine. Go on, get thinking. Like the Catholic Church has never killed anyone. Or the Germans. Or even, Muslims put fatwa on the Pope....'
I'll say one thing for Bonnie. She's quick.
'Pope Benedict causes cock-up in the Vatican. Perhaps the first cock-up ever in the Vatican. Then again, perhaps not...'
Bless me father, for laughing at blasphemous joke made by Rangers supporter.
And, God, if you are listening, please bring my cat back and I'll go to Mass every Sunday. Promise.

Have I got time to do a post?
Might be my last one for a few days because I'm off to London tomorrow. Financed by cheque from agency, cashed in some diabolical money-lending establishment. Charged me 11 pounds just to cash it. It's not so bad for me, I'm just bypassing my overdraft but all those other temps, the African ones and the Eastern Europeans. It's 2 hours bloody wages they're taking.
Anyway, reason for trip to London. The wife of one of my cousin's is very ill; not the one I fell out with in August (which I never mentioned before anyway), another one. Her name's Mairead and she was always nice to me really, I should go and see her. Breast cancer; she thought she'd got over it but it's back with a vengeance. It's an epidemic, breast cancer. I read in the paper today that Marianne Faithful has it now.
What did Andrew Loog Oldham call Marianne Faithful? 'An angel with big tits'. Something like that. She was so lovely. How can someone once so young and lovely now be 59 and have breast cancer? I am beginning to see that good health is an asset, no longer to be taken for granted.
Anyway, earlier, I am rushing to get to pork place. After first faffing about on blogsite for a bit.... Quick shower, I think, only to find Ian has filled the jacuzzi and set the scene. Blinds drawn, candles lit, obviously some reunion ritual with Gabriella.
Did I mention the jacuzzi? Bonnie's idea. For her and Guy to use. The same Guy who returned to his wife after six weeks.
The jacuzzi stays. A bit of a huge, white elephant taking up most of the bathroom. Not wishing to run up Bonnie's water bills I've yet to use it.
Ian has no such qualms.
I nip in quick to grab a shower.... just finished when loud banging on door.
'Just a minute' I yell. I unlock the bathroom door!
Try to unlock it, more like. Screw thing comes off in my hand and I'm a prisoner.
'Help. Help. I'm locked in. What can I do? I can't get out. I'll be in here all day. I've got to go to work. I've got claustrophia. Help'.
'Calm down' said Ian. 'If all else fails I can kick the door in. I'm just trying to avoid having to do that'.
He pushes a tweezers and various sized screwdrivers underneath the door. I fiddle with lock and. eventually, manage to open it.
Thank God for that.
Was only locked in for about 10 minutes but still.

Any one else hear Dominic Holland on Radio 4 last night? 10.30-ish.
I thought he was funny.
My ambition is to write and perform comedy but when I hear people like Dominic Holland.....I mean, I don't have a chance.
Oh,well, when I grow too old too dream. Which I won't.

Dramatis Personae:
Bonnie, a Scottish Widow, my landlady and friend.
The Wain, her niece, looks like Liza Minelli in Cabaret, acts like Saffy in Ab Fab.
Ian, her son, a sort of Mancunian Braveheart.
Gabriella, his Canadian-Italian fiancee, very La Dolce Vita
Fizz, the dog and Bubbles, the lost cat.

A quick post.
Ian's back from Canada. Went upstairs to kitchen to make a cup of tea and there he was, s six-foot-vision, looking very relaxed and tanned with his sandy hair bleached blond. The expensive case that I lent him has also returned intact. I wasn't always so stony broke, you know, I have just fallen on Hard Times.
Which may be somewhat relieved thanks to call from agency. Can I do the 2 to 9 shift at the meat factory? Of course I can. Needs must when the Devil drives and all that.

Might as well write a bit now I'm up.
The Tesco Savings card arrived (the one with 400 pounds on it) but no Pin No as yet.
Years since I've been so broke. But I suppose I'd better get used to it.
That's hardly positive thinking is it?
Anyone read Louse Hay, Shakti Gawain? My Gurus.
'Your not going out in that' Bonnie referring to my yellow, fluorescent anorak. I bought it to wear on the bike.
'What will the neighbours think?' she added.
'Who cares? Don't be so conventional'.
'It's OK for riding your bike but....'
I have loads of stuff in storage. Most of my winter clothes including smart-ish black anorak. I think storing things is a good idea, it makes me feel less of an itinerant, but it's costing me a fortune to store what everyone tells me is a pile of junk. And it won't be easy to retrieve a black anorak from it's deepest depths either.
To placate Bonnie I changed into a black raincoat and deposited a few Lost Cat leaflets through a few letter-boxes. Also put one in the off-licence window.
The two women next door were lovely. First time I've met them. Very concerned and told me they'd look out for Bubbs. Bonnie says their lesbians. They probably are but then again maybe that's what everyone thinks about me and Bonnie.
Cooked dinner. I am chief cook and bottle washer this week. Pasta with sauce and veg. They liked it. I am not a great cook but some things turn out OK. Somethimes people want the recipe but I never know, I just put in what's to hand.
The Uni rang. I have to be there 9.30 on Monday. Is this happening? Must be. I hope I don't feel too much of a freak with all the 18-year-olds.

Just thought. Could be worse. Instead of her first cousin she could be with a goat.

Now I am miserable.
Mooching around all day. On and off the computer.
In fact I feel as dismal as the all the rain we've been having.
And still no cat. I am getting worried now. The other times he went missing he came back but this time.....
Lots of e-mails to Cait. She is a cousin's daughter, I like her. The O'Looneys (as I call them) are a huge Irish family - 9 boys, 1 girl. All getting on now, with grown-up children of their own. Cait was born in England and, since a family wedding about two years ago, has been, shock, horror, going out with one of her first cousins. They'd never met until they were in their 20's. I think both sets of parents are trying to ignore it, hoping it will go away. It probably will, I say going out but as she lives in England and he's in Ireland..... He refuses to move to England. They are a very odd couple too. She's a petite woman, sophisticated, with an artistic, ballerina-type face and he's a big, broad-shouldered Irishman, likes the countryside and likes his pint. Personally, Cait, I think you're wasting your time, he is a player who is only going to break your heart. Well, that is my opinion; I haven't told her. Some things you have to learn for yourself.
Didn't mean to tell her about my degree course either but I was never that good at keeping things quiet. She was very encouraging, thought it was a great idea. I know her Dad and some of her uncles will be derogatory about it but what do I care what they think. Do they pay my mortgage? No. Do they ever as much as unblock my drains? Also no. So they can say what they like.

Last Updated: Friday, 24 February 2006, 16:40 GMT

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Sudan man forced to 'marry' goat

A Sudanese man has been forced to take a goat as his "wife", after he was caught having sex with the animal.
The goat's owner, Mr Alifi, said he surprised the man with his goat and took him to a council of elders.

They ordered the man, Mr Tombe, to pay a dowry of 15,000 Sudanese dinars ($50) to Mr Alifi.

"We have given him the goat, and as far as we know they are still together," Mr Alifi said.

Mr Alifi, Hai Malakal in Upper Nile State, told the Juba Post newspaper that he heard a loud noise around midnight on 13 February and immediately rushed outside to find Mr Tombe with his goat.

"When I asked him: 'What are you doing there?', he fell off the back of the goat, so I captured and tied him up".

Mr Alifi then called elders to decide how to deal with the case.

"They said I should not take him to the police, but rather let him pay a dowry for my goat because he used it as his wife," Mr Alifi told the newspaper.

>>*WHO UNDERSTANDS MEN?
*>>
>>1. The nice men are ugly.
>>
>>2. The handsome men are not nice.
>>
>>3. The handsome and nice men are gay.
>>
>>4. The handsome, nice and heterosexual men
>>are married.
>>
>>5. The men who are not so handsome, but are nice men, have no
>>money.
>>
>>6. The men who are not so handsome, but are nice men with money,
>>think we are only after their money.
>>
>>7. The handsome men without money are after our money.
>>
>>8. The handsome men, who are not so nice and somewhat heterosexual,
>>don't think we are beautiful enough.
>>
>>9. The men who think we are beautiful, that are heterosexual,
>>somewhat nice and have money, are cowards.
>>
>>10. The men who are somewhat handsome, somewhat nice and have some
>>money and, thank God, are heterosexual, are shy and do not NEVER
>>MAKE THE FIRST MOVE!!!!
>>
>>11.The men who never make the first move, automatically lose
>>interest in us when we take the initiative.
>>
>>NOW ....WHO THE HELL UNDERSTANDS MEN?
>>
>>Men are like a fine wine.
>>They all start out like grapes, and it's our
>>job to stomp on them and keep them in the
>>dark until they mature into something you'd
>>like to have dinner with.
>>
>>SEND THIS TO SMART WOMEN WHO NEED A LAUGH
>>AND TO THE GUYS YOU THINK CAN HANDLE IT!
>>
>>GOOD DAY!!!!!!!
>>

Let's hope today will be a bit more productive than yesterday.
Watched a bit of 'Arthur' last night. I was just raving about Dudley Moore - if ever I have an image of the perfect man then it has to be Dudley Moore.
Bonnie horrified. 'Och, nae, yae canna be serious'. Words to that effect.
I told her I remembered fancying him at 14 and this girl at school laughed. Then he became a sex symbol. So I was right. He's very fanciable.
I love small, dark men.
'I could see that Peter Cook was attractive' said Bonnie.
'Peter Cook. No. Never. Too lanky and skinny'.
Now if I knew how to download things of the Web then I could add a picture of Dudley Moore.
You'll just have to imagine it.

Alright, seeing as Welshceltgirl is telling jokes.
My current favourite -
A very religious Irish Catholic man goes to Confession:
'Bless me father, will I still get into Heaven, I've done a terrible thing....'
'What's that, my son'?
'Oh father, I lost all self-control and had sex with my wife on top of the freezer'.
'That's nothing to worry about. Of course you'll still get into Heaven'
'Thank God for that because I'm banned from Asda'.

I don't know what possessed me last night. Finished off Farmer Lad's wine so went back on the ouzo. Poured one out for Bonnie.
'It's gone white' she said after I'd added the lemonade.
'Of course it has, it's like Pernod'.
She didn't know but said that her ex-boyfriend and love-of-her-life, Guy, used to drink Pernod.
I couldn't believe it.
'So did Ern'. Well, he did after about 20 pints of lager.
London Boys, the pair of them.
'Pernod' said Bonnie 'It's a girl's drink!
I agreed. 'Bloomin' poofs'!
Don't think there's too much ouzo left now.
God, I hate alcohol. Quote from a country song I used to know - 'Hangovers hurt more than they used to'.
Very true.
So today was a complete write-off. As luck would have it the Agency rang - if I wanted I could go up to the factory, there was a possibility of some work. I declined. Given the state of my head. But I could use the money. Gym chasing me up for this month's membership. Lord above, no wonder I drink.
The delectable Gabriella is back. Bonnie's future daughter-in-law. A pretty, dark thing, Canadian-Italian, Bonnie loves her and is looking forward to lots of black-haired bambinos. Ian's last girlfriend spent all his money then left him for a professional footballer. Bonnie pleased he met Gabriella.
'What woman wouldn't want a lovely girl like that for her son'.
Gabriella's sensible too. It was her idea for Ian to move back in with his Mum, to help him pay off his debts.
'My Mum's got a houseful, I don't think she'll have room for me' he said.
'Ian', Gabriella pointed out, 'She'll sleep in her car if she has to. She's your Mother'.
Sensible, like I said.
And thank-you everyone who's enquired about the cat. Still no sign of him. I rang up the RSPCA; they said do a notice and put it in local shop windows, through doors etc.
I'll do it now and Bonnie can photocopy it for me tomorrow.

Honestly, my last entry this morning. I'll just write this, then I'll go and have another look for the cat.
Princess Diana. I'm still on about her.
I suspect she was batty and selfish. But aren't we all?
Two things I liked about her, one, all that stalking and phone-calling that bloke - was it Oliver someone? I just think it's the sort of thing women do when they get a bit obsessed over a man.
Enough said!
And the fact she hated Tiggy Legge-Bourke. Me too, all my life I've hated girls like Tiggy Legge-Bourke. I may never have met Tiggy Legge-Bourke but I know her type and I hate them.
They're the girls at school, the ones with personality, ugh, the ones that become Head Girl, the popular ones that have loads of friends, the out-going ones, and did I say friends, I did, and boyfriends, you'd better believe it.
And your shy and spotty and wear glasses. Have two friends you've known since you were 5. Can't get a boyfriend to save your life.
But then you leave school. You get contact lenses and learn how to use make-up. And you start getting told your pretty. But you still can't get the hang of the personality thing. I mean, you can do charm. Charm and shyness go together a bit like Princess Diana discovered. But the personality stuff. And everyone around you getting described as 'bubbly' and 'feisty' and you can't do any of it.
Well, that's my little rant over. 'Lord who made the Lion and the Lamb, you decreed I should be what I am'.
Did I tell you what the Principal said to me at Theatre Scool? (Another incarnation, like years ago). 'Your not an actress, Maureen'.
Oh, thanks and I thought I was Glenda Jackson.
'What you are is a personality'.

Right, here we go, although I doubt very much it was worth hanging on for. If anyone did.
Yesterday we all recalled where we were on 9/11.
What about those other anniversaries? President Kennedy, John Lennon, Princess Diana.
Yeah, I can remember all 3 of them but for now I'll just do Princess Diana.
I was in Crete with my ex, the ever-loving (So Not) Ern. We'd been in the hotel bar boozing with the staff.
'Lady Dee pregnant' insisted the male desk clerk/barman/Jack of All Trades.
A couple of German guests interested. Ern, always anti-Royalist, trying to change the subject.
'Another lager, please'.
'Yes, reeeelly, Lady Dee pregnant.....'
A few weeks earlier we'd been at the Edinburgh festival. In one pub they'd been a Chinese folk-singer. Brilliant. I remember his name Andy Chang. Anyone heard of him? Singing funny songs with titles like 'East Killcoddy' and one, about Princess Diana, all sort of sand-dance, Egyptian music that went 'Oh, Dodi, lay your body next to mine'.
Back to Crete. Next morning, the minute we got up, the desk clerk informed us 'Lady Dee die'.
At first we just thought it was a joke, a continuation of the previous night's banter.
Then we saw the pictures on the television.
'I didn't like her' said Ern, ' but I wouldn't wish that on anyone'.
My instinct was, that was no accident.
There was a one-minute silence at some karaoke bar that evening but no mass hysteria like there was in London.
'Thank Gawd we missed that' said Ern.
So, in the end, Dodi laid his body next to hers.

I could do with another cuppa before I start this profound post.
So hang on.

Spent most of today. in and out of the house, calling my cat. No Joy. Was a bit productive as well. As in did piles of washing. No room on Clothes Horse, didn't want to run up bill by using dryer so improvised and draped stuff over Bonnie's ornate, wrought-iron gate.
Lovely day so thought it would dry quickly.
Also wasted two whole hours on pointless trip to factory. Turned out they didn't need me after all!
Bonnie came back from work. Cooked pasta (I did) and opened one of Farmer Lad's wine bottles. He brought three with him last night.
Bonnie a bit dismal because she thought she'd frightened him off.
Changing the subject (temporarily) Bonnie's recently been getting lifts to and from work with her friend, Jane. Jane, apparently, very amused to see my knickers festooned over the garden gate.
Bonnie appalled.
'Get them down', she said.
Words to that effect.
'Honestly, my Mother would turn in her grave. We're not tinkers! Oh, you canna hangyer knickers on the gate. Get them down.'
Words to that effect.
First drops of rain.
'Go and fetch that washing in', she ordered.
I did, then had another quick look round for Bubbles.
'Have you seen a black-and-white cat'? I asked the neighbour opposite. The one with all the cars parked on a bit of wasteland.
She tried to be helpful. 'I last saw him on Friday. Hiding in the corner'.
She thought a bit more then began 'There's a woman over there who takes them in.....'
Before she had a chance to finish her sentence the heavens opened and we both had to quickly run for cover.
Bonnie convinced that's where he is. In some woman's house, getting fed chicken.
Watched a bit of telly. Horlicks and Jaffa Cakes for supper then she got text from Farmers Lad asking her to phone him
She took her mobile upstairs, delighted.
'Good-night, then' I said, adding, 'I suppose your right, Bubbles is with that woman'.
'I'm convinced. Cheer up! That woman! The way you talk it sounds like it's your husband whose gone off, not your cat'.
What was my mantra again? All men are bastards.

Cat still not home. I'm getting worried now.
BONNIE'S LOVE LIFE - As I don't have one I may as well write about hers. Not that she had one last night either. Farmer's Lad decided to go home.
'He's very moral', she said, 'He won't sleep with me unless we're having a proper relationship'. Bonnie quite impressed by this and thinks she has found a good man. He is now top of her Prospective New Husband List.
For what it's worth I quite approve of him. He seems genuine, if a bit complex. He's less nervous now than when he first came round. They fell out about something and Bonnie, being Bonnnie, went back on her dating site and met a few others. But she fancies Farmer's Lad (he's quite handsome and 6 years younger than her). Never married but has a daughter from a long-term relationship). Also lives in a Dormer Bungalow. I dream of a Dormer Bungalow. In the West of Ireland.....
It must count for something that she fancies him because she has a few boyfriends that she's not so attracted to. I know she has this yearning for security but, honestly, and I told her straight, Bonnie, I said, think about it, you cannot possibly marry a man you don't fancy - no matter how big his -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- p-p-p-p-p-p-pension plan is.

Quite a quiet day really.
Bit of a result finance-wise. Bonnie relented and decided to drive me to the airport. Oh her of little faith, got 73 pounds for the dollars that have been lying around in my handbag since March.
Breathing space.
Walk in park with dog and Bonnie, then trip to Gym. Of course my Membership's expired - I have to pay it on my next visit! But I have a contingency plan - more of which later.
All day and Bonnie's mobile constantly ringing, her numerous boyfriends trying to contact her. Really - the Drummer Boy, the Farmer's Lad and the Millionaire (yes), all trying to get hold of her. Literally. Seems it's the Farmer's Lad who's in favour tonight. They're upstairs cuddling on the sofa. I watched The Full Monty with them because she said, 'don't leave me alone with him' but she also changed her duvet covet before he turned up. I thought, sod it, I'll see how my blogs coming along.
Apart from that I also made a couple of phone calls today. Poor Layla in London and Lemonie Mee, my old school friend. Layla, a beautiful Asian/West Indian woman, heartbroken over some man. Could have told her. Probably did but did she listen....? Lemonie Mee (that's what all the 4th form boys called her. Back Then). She's off to Turkey in 2 weeks. Wants me to visit her beforehand. And wondering how come I haven't got 3 boyfriends like Bonnie? Lemonie's never met Bonnie. I think she's a bit jealous of her sometimes but that's just silly. Female friendship is not mutually exclusive (I read that somewhere); certainly not past the primary school stage. You can have lots of female friends. But 3 boyfriends..... different kettle of fish. I couldn't be bothered for a start.
Bonnie had relevation when walking in park. She called it her 'eureka' moment. Her deduction, Corin doesn't speak to me for exactly the same reason I don't speak to him.
'He likes you. He's shy. He's far too nervous to speak to you. Same as you're too nervous to speak to him'.
'Do you think'?
'Think. I know. He's a sensitive man. He's not a player. You've got to encourage him'.
Well.
Next time I see him......
The financial contingency plan? In the old days, when I had a well-paid job.... I was never a great saver but I did try - 400 pounds in a Tesco account, another 100 in the Post Office, 300 pounds worth of Premium Bonds. Naturally all the cards went missing so I couldn't access any of it but rang Tesco's last week and they promised to send me a replacement and a new pin number. So I'll soon me able to get me hands on some moolah. Hee-hee. Dough-ray-mee. It will keep me going until my student loan comes through.
Where's Bubbles, my cat? He's been out all day. Hope he's alright.

Hope I'm not being too confusing. There's a first....
Went off the name Desertflower and decided I prefer new name.

Did I imagine it or did Kinglsey Amis say his writing improved when he'd had a drink.
Kingsley Amis! Pretentious, moi?
I was in a right old strop all day. Bonnie decided (needs must when the Devil drives) that she'd get the weekly shop on her Credit card and she set off for the supermarket, muttering, as usual, about the whole house smelling of cat piss. So, deja vue, I'm tidying up the gaff, yet again.
She returned and I, quite rightly, pointed out that I do more housework than anyone else living here. Ian, forget it. Bonnie, takes to her bed after a hard day's teaching and the blasted Wain, oh yes, excellent at throwing anything out that gets in her way and pulling faces if place not up to her accustomed, she thinks, standards but I've yet to see her pick up a mop, bucket, hoover, or any cleaning device whatsoever.
Bonnie agreed that I had a point.
So, thanks to me, house now spotless and smelling of pine disinfectant.
Got in a few phone calls between squirts of polish.
Firstly to Miss Career-Woman-now-on-Extended-Maternity-Leave-44-Year-Old-Mother-of-IVF-Twins-Social-Climber-of-the-Year, Delphine.
'How on earth' she asks 'did you get sacked from a cleaning job?'
Having heard how, she agreed that I am no way cut out for the world of work and thought it a good thing that I am going in for full-time education.
'Oh, but I'll have to tell Edward and Emily that Auntie Mo works in a factory, oh, dear.....'
As Edward and Emily are only six-months old, such knowledge will hardly scar them for life. They'll still get their 'A' levels, I'm sure, despite their Mother's dodgy friends.
Later phoned Sista. Sista is alright but different. Don't think she really approves of my degree course. Another one, she says. Thinks I'm conning some Local Authority out of vast amounts of money. Pointed out that despite my extensive further education, to date the only degree courses I've started (but not finished) were part-time and self-financed. But do I really need to justify myself to a woman who has only worked three days a week since her (now 15-year-old) daughter was born. And even that was after the obligatory 5 years off.
So then, and bursting for a right rant, I phoned Cousin Hal, one of the O'Looney family (my Irish relations).
I said rant and you'd better believe it. 'No' I screamed down the phone, 'I can't come and visit this week, I can't afford the train fare, yes, I'm bloody broke and I'm sick of your brothers, on about how much money they think I have, what do they know, they haven't a clue how hard it is to be single, what do they know about the price of a decent leg-wax, their bloody wives with their big houses, I can't even afford to live in my little flat, I've worked all my life, and, with all due respect, when was the last time your wife went out to work....'
Bonnie, making all sorts of signals at me to stop, and, omigod, what is wrong with me, what am I on about, Hal's wife is dying of cancer......
'Why am I so stroppy? Why am I acting like this?', I ask Bonnie, after I put the phone down.
'Because, Maureen, you are worried sick about money. That's why'.
So it was nice to get to the folk club and relax. (Thanks to Bonnie and her last tenner). Very quiet this week. And once again, no Corin. That's it, no hope, I'll never have sex again, oh well, good job I like the music.
And the music's great. 'Curragh of Kildare', 'Gypsy Rover'....
In the top corner, enveloped in a fug of smoke, Ben who runs it, and Big Mel. A giant of a man, T-shirt, jeans, denim jacket, muscular, with his now-grey hair still curling on his shoulders, a beard and, his long, sensitive, musician's fingers clutching a permanent fag.
At the end of the night they gave up on the folk and started on the sixties stuff, Kinks 'Lazy Afternoon', Box Tops - Box Tops!
The Barmaid came in, to chuck us out. A big - and not young - woman. She looks at Mel's guitar and orders 'Put it away'.
'Oh, aye, Sue love - and me guitar'.
We all laugh.
'Chill out, Sue' Ben tells her, 'Put some flowers in your hair'.
'Flowers', she scoffs, 'I didn't go in for flowers in the 60's or 70's'.
No, Sue, you were never a hippie chick. You were more of a Mod.
Mary Hopkin - 'Those were the days, my friend'.
How's it go? 'Older but no wiser - for in our hearts the dreams are still the same'.
Drive home and Bonnie dying to tell me what she's discovered about Corin.
'You were at the bar, they were talking, asking where he was, I've found out loads....'
It seems, during the week, he lives and works in Derby, of all places. The couple he always comes with, well, we thought the woman was his sister but no, turns out she's his sister-in-law. His brother died but he still keeps in touch with her and the man is her new husband.
So. Bonnie pleased to discover that Corin has a job. Bonnie has a very practical streak.
Not that practical. She fancies Mel.
'It's just his smoking. I don't know if I could stand his smoking'.
I tell you, when they bring in that anti-smoking law it'll be the end of folk clubs in this country, mark my words. Those old folkies (I didn't say fogies) will lose the will to live.
And the ouzo? Bottle of, found in cupboard. I'm entitled to a little nightcap. After all, I don't smoke.

Now really I don't have much to write about tonight. It wasn't the most interesting of days. Being Friday I was told to go into work an hour early, at 3.00 pm. 1-ish, I was in no hurry, in fact I was still searching for that missing credit card, the one that I could perhaps use. Next thing, phone rings, agency, can I be there by 2.00 pm? I could and I was. Huh! Charge Hand said we don't actually need you until 3 but not one word of an apology from that agency cow. My time. I had to sit in the canteen for a whole hour.
On the misfits line again, story of my life. Alright mishapes is its correct title. I prefer misfits. Apologies to any vegetarians reading this but for the first time ever I can now see how rashers of bacon bear a resemblance to the whole pig; I mean, I can sort of see where they come from. I told you it was a boring day. I was supposed to finish at 8.30 but, as nobody said I could go home, I just assumed I had to remain there until 9, with the others. Until I saw the Charge Hand laughing, at ten to 9. She said I should have gone at 8.30. Expect she thinks I'm daft because I never get the timing of the shifts right.
Watched Jonathan Ross. Bonnie out on date. Drummer-boy. He's a nice person, she said but she doesn't really fancy him but will go out with him a few more times to see if he grows on her. Bonnie hell-bent on getting married again.
Talking of bent, e-mail from Maj and Blondie. Pleased because we had a bit of a falling-our last time we met. They're sorry I'll be missing my friend's birthday party. So am I.
No sign of credit card. Assured Bonnie that if she drives me to Manchester Airport tomorrow then I can get some left over American dollars changed and I think it will cover this week's rent. Not one-hundred per cent sure. Can never quite remember whether you get more or less dollars than pounds. Bonnie said she won't be very pleased if my dollars are worth less that her petrol money to airport.
We hatched plan to write comedy script and send it to the BBC. Where it will be received with open arms and posting of enormous cheques to us both. This plan gets spoken of time and again, as yet no script written.
'This weekend...' Bonnie quite convinced we'll find time to compose some literary marvel. Galton and Simpson ride again.
Paris Hilton done for drunk-driving. Piston not broke - unlike me.
Galton and Simpson? Perhaps not.

Life at Packing Pork Inc.
This job is so casual, on a day to day basis. I was fed-up returning the Agency's call saying, yes, I'd be in at 4 pm, so yesterday I didn't bother. Which meant that when I turned up the Agency woman said I wasn't needed. So, gear off, heading out the door again when Charge Hand (to use the proper lingo) says 'Hang on a minute'. Turns out she was 4 short and I could stay after all. Gear on.
Fewer temps on the line yesterday, more of the permanent staff. Indigenous northerners, a lot of women my age. One asked me if I was Polish. Seems all the temps are either Polish or African.
The noise in that place. Hiss, boom, clang, whish, whoosh, screeeech..... all accompanied by music from a barely audible radio. I can't hear a thing but these women conduct conversations through it. Amazing.
Financial concerns in case anyone's interested. Of course, I didn't have 600 pounds in my current account - see previous post. Or don't bother, blogging about how hard-up I am does not make for great entertainment. So I have now overdrawn my overdraft. At least the mortgage got paid.
London friend is having a birthday do tonight. As if I could afford to go!

Still no sign of missing form.
Post arrived. 'You have won a million pounds on the Premium Bonds'.
No. Only a blinkin' letter from the Housing Association that I leased my flat to. Repairs that need doing.....
It gets worse.
No ignition on gas hob. Why can't they use a match?
Blocked drains, oven not working, leaking loo....
Took dog out.
Ah, one good thing. Got funny e-mail from Ern, my ex.
Admit it, I probably still love Ern. I certainly like him. I know he's a shit but he makes me laugh.
Told him about my blogging hobby. Not the address. Don't want him reading my business. Not that he was ever one of life's big readers.
He'll have something sarcastic to say about all my new 'virtual' friends but who cares. When I was doing the Tarot readings all I got was 'Your on the phone all night, talking to people as daft as yourself'.
We were so incompatible.
But, be honest, I'd still marry him if he asked. There's the rub.....
Still, we're incompatible.
Since blogging I am inspired again to visit India. Once I get my finances sorted.
I remember Ern's reaction when I suggested a holiday in India.
'No way. India! I am not going to India. Doesn't matter how expensive the hotel is, anyone I know who goes to India gets Delhi Belly'.
As I said, incompatible.

Dramatis Personae:
BONNIE, a Scottish Widow, my landlady and friend.
THE WAIN, her niece and IAN, her son.
Along with FIZZ, her collie and BUBBLES, my cat, we all live in communal bliss in a terraced house on some corner in the north of England.

Now I am not to veg out in front of this screen all morning. I have, after all, things to do.
Get on great with Bonnie in general but we came close to having a row last night.
'What do you mean you haven't filled your university form in? I thought you'd filled it in when you got it'.
'No, I filled the loan form in'
'You'll have to fill it in immediately or you'll lose your place. What do you mean, you can't find it?'
Told her it was that bloody niece of hers. You can't leave anything down for five minutes but that girl throws it out. She's got excessive compulsive disorder or something. I've lost a 50 pound pair of sunglasses because of her, and my card thing for cut-price hairdos at Nicki Oliver's.
'You have to file stuff away immediately'.
She helped me look for the form. My bedroom's the size of a shoebox, I use the cellar for storage which was ok until Ian's junk arrived.
'You need a PA, you'll never, ever make a teacher....'
'I never want to be a teacher'.
Half the reason I applied for my university course was because Bonnie's thinks it's a great idea. She thinks I'll end up teaching. I can't think of anything worse. I am going to be a writer and performer or bust, as they say.
No, the university form didn't turn up. So have to have another look when I've finished posting.
We are both so broke too which isn't helping.
Bonnie is on a paying-all-her-bills-first thing and not touching her credit cards and I am just broke and can't find the only credit card I have left that might actually have some credit on it.

Almost forgot.
How we are treated in that place! Gruesome manager noticed me in overall without hairnet on. As if I could remember which went on first! An easy enough mistake to make considering it's only my second day.
He was just so rude, talking to me like I was a piece of shit.
'I'm very sorry, I forget which way round it went', I said sweetly, but was calling him all sorts of rude words in my head.
Now, name-dropping, of course I am. Once I met Lord Longford. Years ago in another temp job. And he treated me like I was a human being (which I am). (In case you were wondering). Actually, I was so impressed by Lord Longford. I thought he was one of the saintliest people I have every met, he just had this aura of goodness. He seemed genuinely interested in me as a person, in everyone as people. Not quite sure what noblesse oblige means but I reckon he had it. I meant to emulate him always but sometimes, like when faced with teenage mothers on buses, or even idiot bosses in suits, I forget.

A fair morning so one decided to take one's faithful hound for a walk through the verdant and profuse Cheshire countryside.
I think Fizz enjoyed it. She loves me lately because I smell permanently of pork.
A little, light housework then heigh-ho, heigh-ho....
Work much the same as yesterday.
Nothing else strange or exciting to report.

Oh dear. Sincere apologies offered by our most hapless heroine.
After publicly accusing my collegues in the salt-mines of being tea-leaves, as well as calling them all the names under the sun, I found the 'stolen' make-up bag on living-room mantelpiece. And 'lost' hairbrush on bedroom floor.
But - and this is worse - I've been flagging all sorts of people's blogs because I found them interesting and wanted to refer to them later. I thought that's what 'flag' meant, I didn't realise it meant report for offensive material.
'er. sorry....

Feel much happier because I was productive yesterday. Productive, proactive, all that jazz.
12.30 I set out, on my bike, for the food factory. I had a vague idea which direction to go in, very vague as it turned out. 1.30 pm and I'm nowhere near it, and I have to be there by 2. Timekeeping has never been my thing but I've been told by the agency that the food factory are sticklers for it. Oh dear, and I so need this job.
See a bus-stop so decide to catch bus. Chain bike to post. Like all bus-stops in this part of the world there's a huge queue of single, teenage mothers. Here's where I turn into a Daily Mail reader. Oh, I hope not, ignore me. But I've never been on a bus up here that isn't full of single Mums and their sqawking offspring and their enormous, bloomin' pushchairs. Anyway, I ask one of the single Mums when's the bus due. Abour 2 minutes, she thinks. How would she know? All of them chatting away to each other, none of them in any great hurry to get anywhere, all the time in the world, not bothered when or if the bus arrives.
Ten minutes later and, like, I am seriously stressed. Times like this I regret leaving London. You could always find a taxi or mini-cab in London.
Give up on the bus idea and decide to ask in nearbye sub-post office if they know a taxi number. Of course they don't. By now I am thinking very politically incorrect thoughts about northern villages, in fact villages in general and throw in small towns. Anyone with anything about them moves to a city. Says me, who finds it a result to be paid the minimum wage! Someone suggests I ask in the pub opposite.
So I'm about to cross the road to pub when - and I couldn't have been more surprised if it had been Apollo in his fiery chariot - a white car with taxi written on it turns the corner!
Can you believe? Some days my guardian angel is on form.
So, with help of deaf but kindly taxi driver, I get to interview/introduction on time.
Interview! The agency woman looked at us as if we were scum. I followed the rest of the underclass (kids mainly) down side of factory.
'This is smoking area, this is where you go if there's a fire, this is the canteen'.
I always liked staff canteens,well, I hate cooking. This is of its genre, gloomy yellow walls, plastic tables and chairs, you know the sort of thing. A few salt-of-the-earth types walking or sitting around. Me and the other agency temps. Turns out we can start there and then if we want and I quite happily sign up for the 4 to 9.30 shift.
Get chatting to some bloke who tells me he has plans to study law and he does voluntary work visiting old people. He seemed a gentle sort of soul.
More political incorrectness. I haven't seen so many black people since I left Hackney. When I eventually began my shift - done up in regulatory gear, hairnet and white overalls, the Supervisor (I think she was) a middle-aged woman seemed quite kindly disposed towards me. And I had the feeling it was because I was the only white person. Judging by the Supervisor's blue eyes, she wasn't that many generations away from being Irish either.
I said it was a food factory. Packing pork to be precise. I was dreading it. Ugh, raw meat and me vaguely vegetarian. Turns out it was ok. They give you plastic gloves. You have to pick up and weigh 92 grams of the stuff then place it on the conveyor belt. You have to do this for five-and-a-half hours.
Describe factory. Oh, you know. Half Heath Robinson, half fluorescent lights and space-age steel. Noisy. You couldn't talk to anyone. I sang away to myself, no-one could hear me. A 25 minute break. Ate some sort of spaghetti and pork concoction in the canteen, right, lads, back on your heads.....
Could be worse. I quite like the rhythm and routine of factories. Maybe I'll be able to get a few shifts that fit in around my studies.
Abandoned the idea of bike completely and caught bus home. Bonnie thought I'd been at the gym. She suggested I look around for more congenial employment, in a supermarket or something but I said this would do for now. At least it doesn't involve people, I soddin' hate people. I'm not so good with figures either so stuff supermarkets. Bonnie was nice and offered to drive me to village where I'd left my bike. Passed cyclist with no lights on our way there.
'I bet that's your bike he's riding' said B but luckily it was still where I'd 'parked' it. Struggled to release its quick-release back wheel so it would fit into Bonnie's car.
'How long have you been cycling?'.
All my life really but I've never been a technical sort of person.
I looked around for some passing stranger who might help but street was deserted. Bonnie muttering something about Emily Pankhurst turning in her grave.
Alls well that ends well, me and bike safely home, 25 pound richer.
Except....
I have had so many jobs but food factory has to be worse conditions ever. Can you believe? No lockers for temps. Agency hadn't warned me so I brought my rucksack. Was advised to keep valuables in my pockets and luckily, I had pockets because the supplied overall didn't. Even so my make-up and hairbrush got nicked.
Disgraceful. I was furious and planning to complain to the shop steward. Bonnie pointed out that most likely there wouldn't be a shop steward. Union? As if. Reminded me that, being a temp, I'd just be told to go if I complained about anything.
You know the song, Deportees 'and all they will call you will be deportees', that's what I feel like.
Gosh, but haven't I got all the credentials to impress a Marxist boyfriend.
Perhaps. But I'm a lady who likes her lippy. Minimum wage or not there was some very expensive cosmetics in that bag. Bastards!

Just had a phone call from the agency.
Have to be at Food Factory for Interview/Introduction by 2 pm.
Good-eee. Has to be better than sitting in front of the computer all day in me jim-jams.
Or is that famous last words?

Dramatis Personae
SandyA suggested I wrote a list of characters at the top of my posts. Really, there's not too many people in my life at present. I recently moved 'oop north and I haven't even got a job. I live in a corner terrace with -
BONNIE - a Scottish widow, my landlady and friend.
IAN, her son
THE WAIN, her niece.
(Both on holiday at the moment). There's also -
FIZZ, Bonnie's collie
BUBBLES, my black-and-white cat.

So today. Not too stressful. Faffed about looking at blogs for ages.
'What happened to the Gym?' asked Bonnie. 'The only exercise you get these days is going up and down the cellar stairs to use the computer'.
So.
She admitted she was as bad. 'If I'm not in bed with my vibrator, I'm doing on-line dating, trying to find some bloke who'll shag me'.
Do I need to know this? Does anyone? Took the dog out for a walk but it was pouring down with rain so we soon came back.
Later we went for a meal at Jane and Jim's, friends of Bonnie's. I'll describe them some other time. On the way to their house we stopped at the supermarket and I nipped in to buy a bottle of wine. Couldn't help noticing latest headline - "Madonna and Guy to adopt African baby to save their marriage". Told Bonnie who was horrified.
'Omigod! That is awful. That shouldn't be allowed. That poor baby! That it so terrible. Still, I suppose it means the poor kid'll eat. I bet there's some desperate African woman at this very minute, saying to her daughter. 'Go on, pretend your an orphan. It's your only chance. Go on, pretend. Whaddya mean you don't want to go? Whadddya mean you don't want to live with Madonna?You'll get an education. After a few months you can send for your brothers. And don't forget your old Mum'.
Diatribe over she drove on to Jane and Jim's where we spent a very enjoyable evening.

Decided not to worry. I've got some cash to be going on with. They'll be bridges enough to cross next week.
July was my favourite month so far this year. July was fine. I was cycling to work every day in all that lovely sunshine, going to the Gym first, very gainfully employed I was in July. I should never have gone to Ireland. Would have, could have, should have....
What is it with humans that they need to work? Bonnie much happier since the new term started. I am sitting around vegetating. I'm listening to so much Radio 4, these days, I could be an announcer.
At least I got to the Gym yesterday. In Bonnie's car but still... Everyone in the house tries to encourage Bonnie to exercise. She's very overweight, doesn't believe that diets work (I think she has a point), also diabetic. The Gym is good for her. She likes swimming.

'Wear your jeans, you look good in jeans. And they suit folk-clubs'.
Ugh! I hate jeans. Uncomfy things. But I put them on anyway.
'Can I wear my hair-piece?' I've taken to attaching a fake blonde ponytail, I think it makes me look great, a cross between Madonna in her conical bra days and Bet Lynch off Coronation Street.
'No, you cannot. It is so un-folky. No self-respecting Marxist would be seen dead in a hair-piece'.
In the end I left my hair au-natural(? spelling). It went very curly when it went grey.
Bonnie was complimentary. 'You have no idea what a good-looking woman you are', she said. Excuse me, in my day perhaps, I'm no spring chicken. All I ever really wanted was to be was beautiful only now I'm beginning to think it's not everything. But I'd love to be Scarlet Johanssen. You wouldn't catch her worrying about her bank balance.
Or Helen Mirren. I dunno, I like Helen Mirren. I suppose she's a role model for older women. She has wrinkles and still looks good.
Helen Mirren would know exactly what to say to the Folk Singer.
So I planned to go to the folk club pretending to myself that I was Helen Mirren and see if it made a difference.
'And tonight, Matthew, I am going to be - Helen Mirren'.
Might have made a difference if Corin had been there. He's there every week only this week he wasn't.
Never mind, I do enjoy the folk club. I always liked folk clubs (but this particular one sings all sorts). In London none of my friends were that keen on folk music so I never bothered. Where music was concerned, Ern considered himself, quote, an 'afficionado' (? spelling) but, apart from the Beatles, I was never all that into his music. He used to love noisy East End pubs with loud bands. At the end of the night he'd get up with them and sing; he was a good singer, I liked the songs he sang. But he could be so vile. 'What do you know about music', he'd say - very vilely. I used to think I did indeed know nothing but then I met Tom and Bonnie and realised I knew loads about folk music because that was much more my sort of thing.
Anyway, the folk club's in the small lounge of some Victorian pub. There's a bit of a parlour feel to it, an aspidistra and walls covered in dark wallpaper and pictures. There's a core group of regulars but different people turn up each week.
A core group of regulars. Be honest, it's very Golden Oldies. Last stop before the Derby and Joan Club, I suppose, a lot of bald, old men with pony tails. And that includes Corin. Ern so hated bald men with pony tails.
It's all very old hippedom, I suppose. As I said, I'm no spring chicken myself.
And when they play and sing, you realise the spirit doesn't age.
Tonight a group of middle-aged couples were there. Lead by some obnoxious drunk who stood up as soon as Ben started playing his guitar.
'Excuse me', he slurred, 'you don't know me. I'm from Bolton. May I say, I love what your doing. Your really good, I love what your doing. But why don't you leave the lounge door open? So everyone can listen. Leave the door open. Your turning it into an exclusive club'.
'Not everyone wants to listen' explained Ben (who runs the place).
'It's worked this way for 35 years' growled another pony tail.
'Performance art' whispered Bonnie.
Then the gorgeus guitarist started playing and the Bolton Drunk hummed, off-key and very loudly all the way through the classic, Spanish stuff. He was getting on everyone's nerves including the poor people he was with but luckily, when the Guitarist had finished, he got up and left shouting out 'You old bastards' as he did so. His friends followed.
'10 years ago, I'd have taken him outside' said Ben.
Bonnie told him he'd handled it really well.
Now back to the Gorgeous Guitarist. He's there most weeks. Younger than the others, no pony tail, very classic, clean-cut good looks, big, broad-shoulders.
Bonnie was flirting with him tonight. He was telling her some joke about the man at the dentist's whose dog died.
I said I didn't get it.
'Ignore her, she's blonde' said Bonnie.
Later she made me ask him the difference between a mandolin and a mandola. 'It will be practice for you, pretend he's Corin'.
I am so shy, especially with men. Bit the Gorgeous Guitarist was really pleased I'd asked and happy to expain. It's got a lot to do with size apparently.
A pleasant evening. The highlights - Bonnie ( who's got a lovely voice) sang 'Summertime' accompanied by the Gorgeus Guitarist which made her night. Then someone else played her request 'Black Vincent 52' by Richard Thompson. Brilliant. My favourite songwriter and I bet Ern's never even heard of him. Another woman sang 'Something in Red', love it, love it. And someone else sang 'Nancy Spain'. I wish I could sing.
'Isn't the Guitarist gorgeus' sighed Bonnie, on the way home, 'and, as for you, vixen, he adored it when you didn't get that joke'.
'I didn't get, honestly, I didn't even hear it properly, never mind get it' I protested.
'I think he likes you'.
Yeah. Gorgeus or not, didn't we decide he was married.
And neither of us need go there again.
Besides, 'I like the Guitarist. He is gorgeus. He's younger and handsomer than Corin.' (Although Corin's handsome). 'It's just I feel this connection to Corin'.
'Rubbish, Maureen. How can you feel a connection to someone you've never had a conversation with. What you feel is a connection to is some dream you've made up in your head'.
Perhaps.
And the update on Bonnie's love-life. There was no spark with the date she had on Friday night but since then some Liverpudlian has contacted her and she thinks he sounds promising.

A quick entry. What else can I do? Bonnie's out on a date, the Wain is upstairs with her boyfriend. I don't want to be a gooseberry.
'No, Maureen' said Bonnie before she went out. 'There is no big cash dispenser in the sky. That 600 pounds is not yours. Are you sure you've paid your mortgage'.
'Er.
Well, I thought the lady on the line (when I finally got through) said I had.
'I bet you haven't'.
'Oh, bugger.'

Cursory flick round with duster.
Then on the phone all day to the bank. Bloomin' answer things that keep you hanging on. One of my hobbies is talking back to them.
'Please hold the line'.
'I've been holding it for the past half-hour, you stupid fuckin' machine'.
'Please hold the line'.
'Fuck Off'
'Please hold the line'.
'I said Fuck Off'.
'Please hold....
Oh, what's the use.
Today I varied this slightly.
'Please enter your 9-digit account number'.
'Your account number has not been recognised. Please enter your 9-digit account number'
'I will when I find my blinkin' 9-digit account number. It's in my diary somewhere. I'm looking for it. So can you Please hold the line'.
Not that there's much joy when you finally do get through. One lot told me I was 900 pounds overdrawn, another told me I was 1,450 pounds overdrawn. I mean there's a difference when your total overdraft is 1,500 and your unemployed.
'It's bound to 1,500 pounds' said Bonnie. 'You never get 600 pounds when you need it most'.
'True. 'How did I get into this mess? In my 50's and stony broke'.
'Me too. Paying off a state-of-the-art kitchen and a roof that needs fixing.'
'I know I've got no money. Still, I've got some fantastic hats and face-creams'.
'Me too, I'll never need to buy another shiny, sequinned evening dress'.
We both resolved to do better in future. We'll learn from the Wain. She could run the Bank of England if she put her mind to it. She's never in debt, she was appalled that I stayed in Ireland and lost my job, she is so sensible, 800 pounds saved up for her holiday in America, just one example.
Ian flew out today, the Wain goes tomorrow.
Jeanette giggled. 'We can have wild parties. The cat can piss where he likes'.
'Yeah, we can take drugs, mess up the house.....'
'I can have fry-ups without Ian moaning, bring some bloke back and shag him senseless.... God, kids, aren't you glad you never had any'.
'I thought kids were supposed to have a wild phase - grow their hair long, smoke dope, go on Protest Marches....'
'No, it's like my Tom used to say. You bring 'em up right and then they go off and become accountants'.
Took dog down to cash machine to draw out my last 50 quid. Except surpise, surprise - funds available 600.
Someone up there loves me.
I withdrew the daily maximum of 200 pounds just in case there's some mistake.

10 THINGS TO DO BEFORE I GET OLDER.

Seem's everyone's doing this list so thought I'd give it a go.

1. Well, has to be get my degree doesn't it.
2. ? Go to India.
3. Go to Russia. Both places I've wanted to visit all my life.
4. ? Get rich. How else can I afford to go anywhere. I tell you the bus fare into Manchester is causing me problems today.
5. Get my equity card. It should've happened years ago. I should never have taken that job at the printer's. I could have been a star by now. Yep, I coulda bin a contender.
6. Get my bungalow in Ireland. With it's acre of land 'tween salt water and the sea-shore. I'm half-way there, cousin Davey promised me the land. Just need an 'undred, thousand to build the 'ouse.
7. Oh, I don't care now. Yes, I do. Ride a horse. I really wanna learn how to ride a horse.
8. Three more to go. I'd be more than happy with the above seven. Oh, I know, get something published. Be a professional writer, I'd like that.
9. What about meet a man? Better still, fall in love with someone who loves me back. I've not had much luck so far.
10. Buy 'The Cosmic Ordering Service'. You know, that book Noel Edmonds recommends. Some journalist in 'The Independent' was very scathing and said why not call it by it's proper name - Father Christmas. Which I thought was funny.
But, there you go, quite pleased I did the above list. If you don't have a dream, how you gonna have a dream come true?

So, last night, in Bonnie's room watching the film. We often all lie on Bonnie's big bed, her, the Wain, Fizzie, Bubbles, me. Tonight it was just Bonnie, me and the animals. Ian came in.
'Oh, no, me Mother's a Lesbian'.
I said I thought we were more bi-species.
He's a big lad, a sandy-haired Caledonian despite the Manchester accent, with kilt-wearing legs. A couple of minutes later a huge Pict-like roar resounded through the house.
Bonnie and I rushed down to the front room to see what was wrong.
'That fookin' cat'.
Oh dear! Bubbles has been spraying again. I mean, he's neutered and everything, I don't know why he does it. It makes our lives here very precarious.
'If he doesn't stop he'll have to go' Bonnie said. Not for the first time.
If he goes I go. Where?
I promised to take him to the Vet as soon as I get some money. I think you can buy plug-in things that help. Anyone got any ideas on how to stop tom-cats spraying?
I think it's because he's a bit unsettled. It was a big upheaval for him, leaving London. 'He's only trying to personalize the place', I said in the cat's defence, 'I don't actually think he sprays in my room'.
'As if you'd even notice' said Bonnie, 'and I'm sorry but he was spraying all over your London flat, the whole place stank to high heaven, I was just too polite to tell you. And how do you know he's not spraying in your room, your blind as a bat. Taking your driving test, as if, you can't even see cat piss.'
At which point the Wain came home from work and put in her twopennyworth. 'He's spoilt, he's allowed to run wild, he's never disciplined, cats need boundaries, he's completely out of control, he thinks he's the Boss, he shouldn't be allowed to sleep with you'.
What? Not sleep with me. I pointed out that I was the only one in the house without a sex-life which they disputed.
'Gabriella's in Canada'
'Alan's in Edinbugh'
'I haven't been out with anyone from the Internet for weeks'.
Weeks! Weeks, that says it all. Wait until it becomes years then you'll be pleased to cuddle into a cat for a bit of comfort in the night.
''Course you have to sleep with Bubbles' Bonnie conceded later. 'Don't worry, those kids are both off on holiday tomorrow, we can relax for a week or two'.

Relax. Doing too much of that of late. In bed all morning listening to Woman's Hour. A sad story about a lonely spinster and her cat, how co-incidental. Anyone out there hear it? Or are you all gainfully employed.
Oh, dear, I shouldn't be faffing about blogging. I should be half-way through a shift at the food factory.