The Witty Ways of a Wayward Woman

Well just to keep you informed I did eventually manage to get some sleep between 5 and 7am this morning. I'm not sure exactly how much but I was sleeping when Mr T woke me up with his usual endearment;


"If you don't get up the boys will miss the bus."


Interpret as you will.


Well the boys did catch their bus. Master Jacob had no school tie though and neither of them had brushed their teeth. Hmm. I hope my dentist isn't reading this; he gives me a really hard time if they're not brushing properly. It's like the Spanish Inquisition at my dentist. How many times are you brushing? Left to right? Gums? Backs of teeth? Electric? Blah, blah, blah, blah. It's enough to shock any decent mother into lying.


"I'm afraid bad teeth is genetic, Mr Dentist. I blame their father."


So anyway, I did actually get some sleep and because I was woken up suddenly I can also remember what I was dreaming about...


So I dreamt I was a secret agent during World War Two. (Obviously, the contents of my previous blog which mentioned secret agents had been instrumental in this turn of events.) In my role of secret agent I was to be parachuted into German occupied France.


With my horse.


Yes, even in my dream I thought it was odd. And I have to say I was bit worried that our shared parachute would break and we would both plummet to our deaths.


So I suspect you're imagining I was to ride the horse in Lawrence of Arabia style across the French Alps randomly taking out any passing Germans with my slingshot. Not so my friends. It was a far more cunning plan. I was to ride the horse to my destination (somewhere in France obviously) where I was to slaughter the poor animal. ( I watched Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall take his lambs to the abattoir last night - I looked away but it obviously still had an impact on me.) Now if watching Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall isn't gruesome enough in my dream my instructions were to turn my unfortunate horse's carcass into sausages.


I'm not sure why I was to make sausages- but I am assuming it was part of some cunning plan to poison the Fuhrer. Now the reason I don't know for sure is that the dream never got as far as that I was still in training and had to undergo some more essential exercises which, somehow or other, involved having sex with Hugh Grant. Now, if you remember I almost had a close encounter with Hugh Grant few weeks ago but Mr T's alarm clock woke me up just as it was getting interesting. Anyhow, the good news that this time I managed to squeeze in most of the encounter before (regrettably) switching back to the dilemma of how to safely share a parachute with a horse.


It's a strange world I live in. And dream in.


Now I've no idea why I should suddenly start dreaming about Hugh Grant. I don't even fancy him. Well not much. Maybe a little because he's funny and I like funny men. It could be because he's been in the news lately in relation to the News of the World telephone hacking scandal and even more recently fathering a child. Anyway, I'm not complaining. I'd like more dreams like that. Yes indeedy! The only problem was that when Mr T woke me up he was a bit taken aback when I pulled out a cigarette and said "How was it for you, Darling?" Fortunately,  I quickly realised my slip up so I leapt out of the bed (which would distract any man I can tell you) and screamed at the boys "Hurry up the bus goes in ten minutes!"


So there you go. I'm not sure what that dream was about really. I don't think it was anything deep and meaningful like psychologists would have you believe. However, if you want to interpret it for me please feel free to do so. (No need to interpret the Hugh Grant bit - I've worked that bit out already.)

I saw across him across the car park. He was just coming out of the doctor's surgery. He looked handsome, debonair and charming as he always does. My heart fluttered.

A thought flashed across my mind that maybe he was being treated for bipolar disorder... quickly followed by the even more worrying thought of erectile dysfunction.

But as our paths crossed I was captivated by his sparkling blue eyes, his lean body clothed in a dark grey suit and open necked shirt. His casual elegance.

He smiled.

I smiled.

"Hello," I said shyly.

"Hello," he replied, his smile breaking into an enticing grin.

"I trust you've not got bi-polar disorder?" I said.

"No, indeed," he laughed. "Just a small problem, easily rectified."

I glanced down at his pants.

He laughed and said something witty.

I said something witty in reply.

He said something even wittier.

I said something even more wittier.

"Wow," he said. "Your the funniest woman I've ever met."

"So you've not met Graham Norton then?" I quipped.

"Hmm. Point taken." He grinned again. "You know, I've never met a woman like you."

"Neither have I," I replied. "Which is lucky as otherwise I'd have to share my inheritance."

He laughed again and reached out and touched my face.

"You have the most amazing eyes," I said as he ran his finger down my cheek.

"You have the most amazing...bottom," he said, as his hand strayed to my thigh.

"Oh gosh," I replied, my knees shaking. "No one's ever said that to me before!"

He slid his arms around my waist.

I wrapped my arms around his neck.

We moved closer together. Our lips were just about to touch and....

BRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRINGGGGGGGGGGGGG.
________________________________________________________

Yep, Mr T's alarm clock went off.

Sod it. Sod it. Sod it. Why do things like that always, always, happen to me? The only time I get a decent dream where I'm not been bashed to death by a lunatic with a Le Crueset saucepan or drowning in a sink of stinky dishwater and it has to be ruined by Mr T's alarm clock. Humph.

I'm lodging a formal complaint. I demand some flattery of my bottom or I'm moving out.