I have a headache, and a real post is somewhat beyond my mental capacities at the moment. Some may say it is beyond me at any time, but those people are mean. Anyhoo, for a change, and because it’s easier, I thought we could play a little game. The following is a list of facts about me (yes, it’s all me, me, me), four are true, one is a fib.

1) As a teenager I wanted to become a fire-fighter, but didn’t because of opposition from my mother – she thought I would be sexually harassed, by whom I don’t know, most of the staff at our local fire station were friends of my father.

2) Even though I am left handed, I can ‘draw’ with a mouse using my right hand.

3) When I first moved to this village, I spent a year living opposite an undertakers which was incredibly depressing.

4) I can speak Russian, but have never needed to.

5) I know how to lay bricks, but have never needed to.



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I have tried to keep quiet about this. To bite my tongue and say nothing. But, it’s happening so often I must speak up.

Over the last few months, I have noticed a growing number of American bloggers discussing shepherd’s pie. Nothing wrong with that, I like shepherd’s pie, it is the epitome of fine food in my book. No, the problem is, for some unknown reason, the bloggers in question seem to think shepherd’s pie is Irish. It’s not. Dublin Bay Prawns = Irish. Soda bread = Irish. Shepherds pie = jolly good food for our climate.

I admit, it is eaten in Ireland – my Irish grandmother made a first class shepherd’s pie. However, it is also eaten in England, Scotland and Wales. Trust me, the people of the north-western archipelago are very fond of the stuff. Furthermore, it does not contain tomatoes and under no circumstances should you ever use instant mashed potato. In fact, anyone guilty of the latter thoroughly deserves whatever cruel and unusual punishment the comfort food gods throw at them.

BTW, there is a variation, cottage pie, which is made from beef, not cottages. Shepherd’s pie, in case anyone wondered, is made with lamb, not shepherds – we stopped using them because the buggers are really hard to catch.

One final thing. I wonder if shepherd’s pie is being wrongly described because of the snobbery against British food. Hmm.

Oh well, off to boil some tripe . . .

When I was 17 I was a student, and like most students I wasn’t exactly overburdened with money. Most of the spare money I did have was spent on clothes of many different styles, but usually black in colour. One day, while out shopping with a friend I spotted a skirt, or, more precisely, the most wonderful skirt imaginable. It was the skirt I was born to wear, or so I thought. It was long, floaty and made of the lightest, ‘barely there’ silk. But, it did differ from my usual purchases because it was not black. No Dear Reader, it was pink. And not just any pink. It was brilliant cerise, a truly eye-catching garment. Even better, although it was quite an expensive skirt, it had been marked down severely, so was well within my limited budget. That made my mind up, I was having it.

My friend remarked that it was a little out of the ordinary for me, that maybe it wasn’t really my thing, but I was having none of that. I was buying the skirt! And so what if it was pink? Almost everything I owned was black, and black goes with everything. So, I scooped it up and headed for the till. Within minutes I was the proud owner of the greatest skirt ever.

Fast forward a couple of days and I was about to unveil this wonderful confection on the general public. Clad in the most wonderful skirt ever and a little black top, pausing only to ‘go’ before I left, I set off along the road into town. About half a mile from my house I had to pass a factory. It was lunchtime on a nice day, and a group of workers were outside eating lunch on the lawn. As I passed I heard several of them shouting, obviously my new skirt was really something! Deciding they were perverts, I stuck my nose in the air and kept walking at a brisk pace. However, one of them had the cheek to follow me. I walked more quickly, he kept pace. It was quite alarming! We kept this up for almost a minute before my pursuer shouted out, ‘Excuse me love! I’m not trying to hassle you, I just thought you’d want to know your skirt’s tucked into your knickers’.

I spun around, half hoping he was wrong and I could give him a well deserved piece of my mind. But he wasn’t wrong. It was true!

When I had ‘gone’ before I left, I had inadvertently tucked the long, wispy material into my under-pinnings, and, because it was so light and airy, I hadn’t noticed!

With my face at least as pink as my skirt, I thanked my this kind soul, apologised for my misinterpretation of his motives and shuffled off feeling somewhat deflated. My opinion of the pink skirt had turned 180 degrees. It was no longer the best skirt in the world, and I returned to my raven black garbs which had never betrayed me in such a despicable manner.

Visit Top Blog Mag for more of this weeks ‘Colour’ themed posts!

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One of the features of Facebook is a thingy where you enter your mobile phone number and are sent a text message to verify that you are who you say you are. I decided to do this today, not wishing them to think I was a dodgy geezer.

So, I entered my number and waited for the text. And waited, And waited. It did not arrive. Deciding I must have written the number down incorrectly (yes, I have to write it down or I would forget it) I rang it myself and just got a ‘no such number’ tone. Hmm. Tried again, same result. I asked Number Two Son to ring me, and he got the same thing. At this point, I realised my sim card had stopped working. I didn’t know that could happen, but I suspect it may be because I had forgotten to charge the thing for over a week.

. . . I’ve just had a lovely bath and now I’m sitting here feeling nice and cool, but stinking of anti-septic ointment which I had to apply to my left arm thanks to some ‘orrible little critters taking chunks out of me when I walked the dogs earlier. Just thought I’d let you know.

ps: I do have a nice, cold glass of rose’ to take my mind of the stink, so it’s not all bad.

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