Saturday, 28 February 2009

Blowing Your Own Trumpet...

As if my life wasn't difficult enough, eldest son has just purchased a trumpet. Between them, my kids play bass guitar, drums, mandolin, electric and acoustic guitar, ukulele, harmonica, keyboards and now the bloody trumpet. Actually, that's a lie; my son doesn't technically play the trumpet as he hasn't yet worked out the whole cat's-bottom mouth shape and breathing thing. It's more of a loud, wet-fart sort of noise reverberating through the house while I try to write, or talk on the phone or fall asleep...
And then, just to really piss me off, he opens up a tube, blows through the mouthpiece and blasts the accumulated spit out onto the floor.
"All brass players do it, Mum. You have to clear out the moisture to preserve a clean sound."
"Not on my bloody carpet, they don't! And that's not moisture, that's a flaming waterfall!"
Now, I'm all for encouraging creativity, but when will they give me peace to nurture mine?

Friday, 20 February 2009

Down a Dark Alley...

My youngest son and I sat in the car this evening awaiting the return of eldest son from his guitar lesson. Blinding lights in the rear view mirror, a last-minute swerve and a police car swung in beside us. Two cops leaped out and belted off down the alley way in front of us. Youngest son and I exchanged raised-eyebrowed looks and surreptitiously locked the car doors.

Forty minutes later, bored to the back teeth, because neither eldest son nor the police officers had returned, we decided to have a walk. Actually, that's a lie; Matt's lessons can drag on for days if I don't poke my head in the door and shout, "Three minutes and I'm leaving without you, darling!" (It's the term of endearment that always get him moving...)

Well, youngest son and I had exited the car, stepped in front of the cop-mobile about to walk down the alley, when from the darkness, a deep voice yelled, "Get away from the car. Move back against the wall where I can see you. Do it now!"

Son and I, limbs all a-tremble, leaped three feet into the air and flattened ourselves against the wall. The growly voice, dressed in police uniform, threw himself towards us, and stopped dead. "Oh, sorry, darling. You all right? I thought you were kids messing with the car."

"No," I squeaked. "Just walking past...innocently..."

"I'm really sorry for scaring you."

"S'allright," I squeaked again.

He leaped into the car, reversed and screeched out of the car-park. I sneaked a look at youngest son, who was still pressed up against the wall, eyes wide, mouth open. When I was sure my legs could carry my weight again, we un-peeled ourselves from the wall and scurried back to the car.

I tell you, those streets just ain't safe anymore...

Wednesday, 18 February 2009

Grubby Nets and No Knickers...

It's official; I've turned into one of those women. I collected fourteen loo-roll tubes, seven empty shampoo bottles and an assortment of decaying insects from my bathroom today. I wanted to bathe, but the bath was dirtier than I was. Amazingly enough, the bleach bottle was still full though...

I've had to buy the kids new clothes because they've nothing clean to wear, and my fridge is home to E-coli, salmonella and something furry with ears. Bending to retrieve a black, balled-up sports sock from the floor, I realised it wasn't a sock at all, but a nub of mouldy bread. It must have been sitting there on my terracotta-grey tiled floor for hours, if not weeks.

I've never been meticulously house-proud; preferring, instead, to subscribe to the Only Boring Women Have Immaculate Homes school of thought, but even I can see that things have gone too far. I have become a slob, a slovenly sloth and a slattern.

Do all would-be writers live in this perpetual state of decay, I wonder?

Monday, 16 February 2009

Talk To Me...

Is there anyone out there in cyberspace blogoshere? Please, leave me a comment, somebody. Anybody...

Sunday, 15 February 2009

A Sex Slave for Valentines Day...

I Saw the wonderful Sex Slaves last night in their farewell gig. Well, probably their farewell gig... Enjoyed the music, the atmosphere and the dancing, although in my case, it was more bouncing up and down on the spot than dancing as I seemed to be hemmed in by a wild, whacky blond guy with elastic, flailing limbs and a dark-haired lady with huge knockers, which kept banging me in the shoulder blades. Boy, could those big mammas move.

I went with some mates and my (almost) seventeen year-old-son. I still can't get over that; how many (nearly) seventeen year-olds spend a Saturday night out with their mum? And it only cost me two pints of Fosters.

Farewell, Sex Slaves - a sad loss to the Cornish music scene.

Tuesday, 10 February 2009

When you're in Love with a Beautiful Doctor...

Okay, it's been a long time coming, and I was beginning to wonder if my Prince would ever show his handsome mug, but he's here at last.

It's official: I'm in love.

It started out as a(nother) routine visit to my GP's surgery, because I can't seem to shake off the shingles. Expecting to be seen by old Dr Hemorrhoid, my knees went wobbly at the sight of new Doctor Lurve. Tall, dark and gorgeous, his eyes are like pools of melted chocolate, crinkling at the corners. He has closely cropped dark hair, that I know would just feel like velvet Velcro under my trembling palm. He laughs a throaty chuckle, and speaks with a sexy Irish lilt. Oh, be still, my beating heart...

I explained my sorry tale of (more) blistering pox popping up on my cheek and he gently brushed the shaggy curls away from my face. As his thumb gently swept across my temple, I let out a strangled moan. He moved in closer. I felt his warm breathe on my skin. Oh, God, he was just inches away from my quivering lips.

"Herpes," he announced. "Do you have any more blisters anywhere else?"

"No. Shall I take my shirt off?"

"And how's your health in general?"

"Fine. Shall I climb up onto the examining coach?"

"Are you feeling particularly stressed at the moment?"

"Hell, yes. Shall I just get naked?"

I think I may be ill again tomorrow. And the next day, and the one after that...

Wednesday, 4 February 2009

Warning: only read this on a strong or empty stomach...

My secret fantasy involves Mel Gibson (Lethal Weapon era - think untamed curls and firm buttocks).

Imagine: a cabin in the wilderness, it's dark outside, a log crackles as it settles among the burning embers in the stone fireplace. Two naked bodies are curled across a milk-white sheepskin rug. The firelight flickers, shadows are smudged across the dips and curves of their shaded forms. Scented candles send wisps of vanilla into the warm air.

She slithers onto her back, drawing up her knees. Her heels dig into the smooth fur of the rug. She closes her eyes and moans, "Now. I can't wait..." He moves away. She hears him rustling through his jacket pocket, and then, the soft fall of his footsteps. He's close now; she feels his warm breath on her cheek. She slides towards him, turns her face. His lips on hers, hungry, urgent. She moans, but the sound is soft. "Please..." A rip splinters the silence as he tears opens the packet. She claws at the rug, throws back her head in anticipation. She slides her tongue across her full, open lips. "Oh God," she murmurs and she feels the touch of his soft fingers. He moves across her tense body. Suddenly, he's there - she feels the slight pressure between her lips, opens up, ready for him. He slides the piece of Galaxy into her open mouth and she sighs, delicious...

Well honestly, what did you think I was talking about?