Now Mr T would obviously like me to be dead because he would no longer have to endure my feeb
le attempts at cooking and he would also get a big payout from the insurance company which would enable him to hire a proper cleaner which for him would be sheer unadulterated bliss. Now I’m not saying Mr T is obsessed with cleaning, tidying and all things of a household nature but he’s rather partial to that film Sleeping with the Enemy, starring Julia Roberts in which the psychotic husband (Patrick Bergin) lines up all the jars, tins and towels in order. I’m rather partial to the film too but I can tell you this; it’s bloody cold in The English Channel at the moment and every time I chuck my wedding ring down the loo it keeps bobbing back up. (Yeah that’s what happens when your ring came out of a Christmas cracker.)Of course the feeling is reciprocated because I would have an even BIGGER payout if Mr T was pushing up the daisies. Ho, ho, how delightful; what I could do with all that cash! Why I could;
1. Invest in some top of the range 100% recyclable, fully automated dishcloths.
2. Purchase a self cleaning and self emptying bin.
3. Hire a (very) personal trainer to reshape my body in to a model of womanly perfection. (I would of course require assistance with my press ups.)
4. Hire a personal masseur to soothe my weary (but cellulite free) limbs; I have a little problem with cramp in my thighs which requires some close attention. (Oh how terribly, terribly tedious but I feel I should at least look into the matter.)
5. Employ my own personal chauffeur to drive the young masters to their appointments in a big black Cadillac so I can get plastered by consuming the contents of the drinks cabinet whilst decadently reclining on the leather seats eating grapes and studying a copy of “How To Look Taller and Fail Miserably” by T Cruise. (Second Edition; the first edition was way too short.)
6. Hire a personal dresser. Now in the true tradition of makeover shows I would end up wearing more or less the same clothes as the presenter and not what suits me so I’d take the precautionary measure of not employing Vivienne Westwood. (Although to be honest I’m running out of dustbin liners so perhaps she might come with some hidden benefits.)
7. Recruit my own Chef. Now I quite fancy the idea of a bon-bon talking Frenchman but alas all those frogs legs, snails and horse burgers are not really my thing. (Nobody else’s either but you just can’t tell the French anything can you? Look, we told them the Germans would just go around the Maginot Line but they just wouldn’t listen and look what happened.) I wonder if Gordon Ramsey would work for me? Hmm, I feel it would be most enjoyable telling him to…….remove himself from my presence.8. Secretly employ an assassin to “Take out” Mr Bush and Mr Brown. I will instruct the assassin to enter the White House dressed as a court jester. Mr Bush, who has as they say in the Britain has “A slate missing off the roof” will merely think he has seen his own reflection and when the assassin draws out his poison blowpipe disguised as a Jester’s stick it will be too late……
As for Mr Brown, the assassin, disguised as a chef trained by Gordon Ramsey, will seek employment at The House of Common’s Restaurant where he will serve up Mr Brown’s favourite Scottish meal of truly gross ingredients (haggis obviously.) Now that Mr Brown’s Official Taster (John Prescott) has been dispatched back to Loch Ness, Mr Brown will bite directly into that mouth watering animal stomach filled with delicious offal….and it will be too late… for it will have been cunningly contaminated with a vicious and deadly strain of BSE (Dolly The Sheep’s remains) so ensuring his slow and miserable decline. (Yeah, rather like the British economy…remember that gold bullion we used to have before Mr Brown SOLD IT when prices were really, really low…)
To the right is pictured John "Two Jags" Prescott; a slob amongst MPs. I'd like to say something nice about him but alas can't think of anything. However, I did ring him and ask for his advice on how to get paid a fortune for doing very little. Unfortunately, he couldn't answer because his mouth was full.
Now back to my list;
9. Fund my own Bond movie called On Mrs T’s Secret Service. As co producer and director I will re employ Pierce Brosnan as 007 and Daniel Craig as his sidekick 008. Sean Connery will appear as Pierce’s father 006. Regrettably Halle Berry who will be the mysterious and deadly Double Agent known as “The Housekeeper” will meet a tragic and unforeseen accident the day before shooting begins. The only woman agile enough and familiar with the array of deadly dishcloths, household sprays and aluminium saucepans that unscrew and reassemble as a sniper’s rifle will be Mrs T herself. Yes, regrettably I will have to step into Halle’s shoes and be forced to duel, wrestle and of course submit to the lovely Pierce before being trapped in an underground (bed) chamber …where there will be an almighty explosion thus saving the world from The Housekeeper’s evil and conniving employer Dr T who resides above in a dormant volcano……..
10. Find myself a toyboy who must be at least 5ft 8 and carry a loaded weapon. Early applicants are welcome. Please leave your full particulars and I will happy to audition you.
Now back to other matters.
Now I shouldn’t admit but Mrs T is a bit of a luvvie. When I was young I had theatrical aspirations but exchanged them for a tall, handsome guy and later 3 annoying kids. However, I still quite help myself from doing slightly madcap things (although fortunately they are becoming rarer) and getting myself into embarrassing situations. Indeed I often find myself in the kitchen, rolling pin in hand, talking to a lump of dough in the vein of William Shakespeare.
“To be or not to be a pie; whether tis nobler in the mouth to suffer the crusts and rims of outrageous carbonization…..”
Yes, it’s a sad world I live in, I know.
Anyway the other day I was having one of my flights of fancy during a tennis committee meeting, when tired of saying the same old thing, I decide to exit the meeting in a dramatic fashion. So in true thespian mode I theatrically swept my papers off the desk, grabbed my laptop and handbag and headed for the doorway, pulling the handle fervently in the style of Laurence Olivier…..
….but alas the door remains shut!
Unfortunately, the meeting place was also a children’s playgroup so a second handle had been placed at the top of the door.
Dramatic exit ruined! Mrs T foiled!
Dame Judy would not be impressed. In fact she might be so disappointed that she would decline her role as M in the next Bond movie and a suitable substitute would have to be found…….
Anyway I’m not that popular at the tennis club at the moment. Have you noticed in life how many people are resistant to change? Perhaps the source of a lot of conflict in the world. I prefer to move forward; it’s my policy and I’ve been steadily moving forward on those weighing scales for some time now. I wish I'd not bought talking ones though; being told to “•••• •••” is quite disheartening. (Particularly when the voice belongs to Gordon Ramsey.)
Now of all sports I’m rather fond of tennis which is one of my favourite alongside cricket, boxing (there’s something deeply satisfying about two grown men beating each other up isn’t there?) and Rugby. Of course cricket is much more civilized and requires less washing than rugby and indeed football. (Mind you those grass stains can be a real bugger.) I also prefer the more physical side of rugby than football; let’s face it football is for boys not men. Look at those supposedly grown men weeping and rolling around after a tiny little kick in the shins; what a bunch of girls. (To which I say…. Try having a hockey stick on the head mate; then you’ll know what really hurts or failing that, try giving birth without any painkillers.)
Here’s a rather interesting fact about Rugby which I’m sure most people aren’t aware of; Rugby originally started off as a round ball like a football and then one day when the ball was on the sidelines, along came a short, fat lady with large thighs. Suddenly sliding on the mud, she tripped over the hem of her rustling skirts and fell upon the ball….
And so the famous elongated rugby ball was made….
Yeah, my great, great grandmother was a remarkable woman. Later she became a suffragette; this was when she realised she wasn’t going to get paid for all that housework and couldn’t even vote for a pay rise.
Anyway folks I think I’m gonna have to leave you for the moment those little chaps are calling but I think I’m going to end on a reflective note for a change.
Last night I was travelling through the neighbouring village at dusk to pick up young Master Benedict from his karate lesson….
The sun is l
ow on the horizon, the last few embers of sunlight fading in the deep blue of the early night. The air is warm and speaking of life, of nature. A local farmer is crossing the country lane with his cattle. It is a long time since I have witnessed this event and I watch, mesmerized, as these majestic beasts plod slowly in front of my car. Their black and white markings are still visible in the coming night, their udders already full and gently swaying and with their melancholic movement somehow they seem at one with this peaceful environment…….and then….. I remember…
….Burning piles of cattle, feet upright in the night, smoke permeating the air, the stench of burning corpses and trenches dug deep…..
….I remember…
…. The cruel suffering inflicted on these beautiful beasts in recent years; BSE and Foot and Mouth have devastated entire herds…
…. I remember…
… How much I dislike the tasteless banality of Macdonald’s burgers…
Must we destroy everything we have in the pursuit of commerciality? Of economics? Of greed?
Nature is our mother and I fear that, as any good mother knows, there is a time to show the children who is boss.
And that time may be coming sooner than we think.
Copyright Jane Turley 2008
