Hey, I had a great time yesterday! I went with Keithy and his daughter and our friends to the horse racing at Goodwood! I used to go quite often with my parents when I was younger and that was always boring because my father used it for ‘networking’ or so he said. As far as I could see it was a way he had of splashing the companys money around then claiming it as business expenses at the end of the year.
But this was much more fun, because we went there in a big black sausage of a car which was filled with champers and chardonnay! Heaven on wheels!
When we got there we spent the evening either at our table near a jazz band (they were awful, but Keith seemed to like them. Can’t think why! They were so ancient they had to stop to get their breath back between each number) or going down to the trackside to place a bet or watching the races from the grandstand.
Have you ever done betting? It’s so confusing. Most people take it so seriously. Apparently they study something called form. They agonise over which nag to put their cash on then they watch their chosen horse lose! Me? I go for the nicest names! But it’s the numbers that confuse me. You have to make a decision on whether or not to bet based on numbers called ‘odds’. It can be like 100 to 6 or whatever. On the first race I didn’t know what to bet on so I went for a horse with a funny name, and the odds said even! What’s that all about? Anyway it won so I went down to get my winnings and he said I didn’t get anything except my ‘stake’ back, another word I hadn’t used before except when talking about grilled meat. After that I decided to take someone with me who understood such things.
It’s really funny watching the race because everyone gets so excited and they shout a yell. Things like ‘come on my son’ or ‘yes, yes, yes’. I joined in with the screaming during one race and Keith told me I was shouting for the wrong horse. I told him I knew but the one I was cheering on had a jockey with a nice bum and a pretty coloured shirt! Well, it’s only natural isn’t it girls.
It’s funny watching the people between races. Lots of the women had obviously spent fortunes on dresses and hats so they could look sophisticated a sheik. But by the middle of the day after they had sunk a jug or two of Pimms their hats were all skew-wiff and their dresses all over the place!
Oh, you must see this picture! As you can see Keith was really enjoying himself! I don’t know who they were or where he found them!
Anyway, I have to go now. I’ve got to get down to my allotment and dig some dirt! Bye.
Hey gang, listen to this! A survey this week found that one in five British children could not find the UK on a map of the world. What? That’s a disgrace.
So I thought it would be fun to have a quiz called Where in the World. I’ve got a few pictures, 20 I think, and I want you to look at them and then tell me where in the world they were taken. It's so easy!! (it is for me ‘cos I’ve got the answers!)
To make it more interesting I’ll offer a prize. In fact I’ll make it even more interesting and give a prize to the 3 people with the highest scores! The prizes will be limited edition Rosey Pinkerton china tea/coffee mugs!
The pickies are a bit tiddly and for some reason clicking on them makes them smaller! Hopefully though you'll be able to make them out. If anybody gets more than 5 right I'll be very surprised and more than a little impressed!
When you have finished leave me a comment at the bottom and email me your answers to me at firstname.lastname@example.org ! What a hoot!
So, here goes. The time starts..........NOW!
Keith will probably moan at me. I can hear him now.'The Sunday Scribblings prompt is to encourage and promote literary prowess and excellence young Rosemary, and you my girl are trivialising it'.
But I don't care. Have fun!
This weeks prompt at Sunday Scribblings is The Plan which is quite funny because last weekend I had a plan, but unfortunately it didn't ecxactly go to err.. plan!
Last weekend I devised a plan. It was all to do with my newly acquired allotment. It was some time ago that I got the keys but I’m ashamed to say I’ve done nothing with it. Obviously I’m not going to be up and running in time for this year’s flower and vegetable show. The plot has been left to grow wild for some time, and it’ll take a whole season to get it back to a suitable condition in which to produce award winning specimens.
I think I was a little overambitious when I came up with the plan. I wrote it out in verse to make it sound less daunting and I pinned it to the wall of my shed. This is it:-
To pull the weeds
And dig the ground
To sow some seeds
Put fence around
Plant some plants
and paint the shed
and drink some wine
Then home to bed
I didn’t tell you did I? I found some really funky pink boots to wear when I’m gardening and I also found some quite glamorous gloves too! I bought a terribly pretty apron and I came across the prettiest straw hat to keep the sun off my head.
Meanwhile back to the plan. Well I started tugging at the weeds but they just kept snapping. Several times I pulled and pulled and then suddenly they came free sending me flying backwards and onto my derry air! (Why is ones hind quarters often referred to as a derry air? Perhaps Danny Boy knows!)
Anyway I soon got fed up with that. Old Bert in the next allotment watched me for a while. He leaned on his spade with a little grin on his face. After a while he came over and suggested it might be better if I treated the plot with weed killer. I said there was no way I would put anything down that would kill the little creatures of the undergrowth except possibly those creepy things with a hundred legs. (imagine if they needed socks and trousers! It would take all day for them to get dressed!)
He said there were some orgasmic weed killers (I think he meant organic, at least I hope he did! He was looking at me in a most peculiar way) so I decided to heed his advise and leave it for next weekend.
I managed to dig some of the ground but not a lot. I need to put that off too until the weeds have gone. As a result my plan to sow seeds fell on stony ground (that’s quite funny!!!)
I did manage to hammer in the little panels of fence. They are like wooden uprights with points on top and only about 18 inches tall. But they mark my territory well. I am even considering painting the fence to match the shed but that might be a little over the top.
Fortunately the weed situation didn’t stop me planting the plants my Dad gave me. They are already established and just needed a hole in the ground and some water to get them settled in.
Then the time came to paint the shed! I went inside and changed into some old clothes. I had to crouch down below the window as old Bert was still looking in my direction and I haven’t got round to knitting my curtains yet. There are just some of those net ones that old people like.
When I paint I do make a bit of a mess! I suppose I should have done a bit of preparation but I was so excited that I decided just to crack on. In all honesty the shed is a bit past it. I’ll probably have to buy a new one next year but in the meantime I’ll make do and make it as homely as I can.
The result is really quite ...startling! After all a pink shed is a little unusual on an allotment. I don’t think Bert is too impressed. He said it looks like a knocking shop whatever that is. He asked if I was going to hang a red light over the door. I told him not to be so silly. I've had to throw out a few old chairs and things ready for when I install my chaise longue (have I spelt that right?)
Actually its quite funny because I now have lots of pink weeds too and they are extremely rare!
The next part of my plan was the simplest. I took with me a couple of bottles of white zinfandel because the colour of the wine goes so well with the newly rendered exterior of the shed (why isn’t it called pink zinfandel? Another of life’s mysteries). Silly me forgot the most essential tool on my allotment – a corkscrew, but Bert came to rescue by pushing the cork down into the bottle with a screwdriver. Unfortunately it resulted in a plume of my wine shooting up into the sky and down again into my eye! What a waste. My friends Josh and Kate suddenly appeared, I swear they have a special radar which tells them when I’m opening a bottle! Bert sloped off and the three of us toasted my new venture – or should that read ADventure?
I wrote a little rhyme to end the day. Sadly I can’t remember it but I seem to recall it ended with the lines
Paint upon my chinny-chin
Paint upon my wrists
I’m sitting here
And drinking wine
I feel quite pinky pissed!
Bye bye for now!
I don’t ask for much. All I wanted was an early night. Just look at the time, it’s nearly midnight. It’s no good trying to go to sleep now, the moments passed. And do you know why? Because Keith just came on the phone and moaned because I forgot his birthday today!
Well, Actually I didn’t forget it. How could I? It was my birthday today too. And mine was more important ‘cos it hit the big three-oh! I had a lovely time tonight with my parents by the way.
Ok, so he posted me a card and sent some flowers. But there was no point in me sending him anything because he was away on a training course. I knew it finished today but I didn’t think he’d get back today because I’m certain he said it was in Switzerland. Now he tells me it was actually in Swindon and he said I must be going deaf! Bloody cheek.
Anyway I’m seeing him tomorrow night so he’ll just have to wait until then.
Oh my goodness – guess what? The other night, Thursday I think it was, he told me that they had a sort of jam session in the hotel bar (why do they call it a jam session? It’s not as if they sit eating strawberry conserve on toast!) Seems the two trainers both brought their guitars down and they had a sing song. If you know Keith then you know what I’m about to tell you. Yep, he sang that awful Ole Shep song again.
Did I tell you how that started? In case I didn’t I’ll tell you again (that doesn’t make sense but you know what I mean) Well, when Keithy was a mere lad of 17 he entered a charity talent night, and that’s the song he chose to sing. He always tells everybody he had the audience in tears. If you’ve ever heard him sing it you’ll quite understand why! Anyway, the charity the contest was raising money for a dog rescue centre. Only Keith could have chosen a song about a dog getting shot!
Well I am going to bed now. I must get some beauty sleep because tomorrow night we are having a joint birthday do, and I need to look my best. Actually, it's tonight, I've just noticed the time! Night night.
I’m back! I heard a dog joke the other day and I don’t get it. I know what you are thinking ‘Rosey never gets jokes’. But this one is so short it should be simple to get. It goes, ‘Why didn't the dog speak to his foot ? Because it's rude not to speak to your paw'. Is that funny? I don't think so.
Fiction Friday this week wants us to write a story in which our character is committed to a drastic or extreme change. This is not actually fiction but I'm sure you won't mind!
I was very young and I didn’t understand. I had this cousin whom I adored, his name was Henry. He was much older than me. I was about six and he was at least sixteen. I used to think that when I was old enough to have a boyfriend I’d like one just like Henry.
Well, Henry’s family moved away and I didn’t see him for a couple of years. I say I didn’t see ‘him’, in fact I never saw ‘him’ again. I saw Henrietta!
I was little confused to say the least. I didn’t realised that boys could suddenly change into girls. I was more than confused, I was really worried. I mean, I loved being a little girl and the last thing I wanted to happen was for me to turn into a spotty scruffy boy!
My parents didn’t really talk about the dramatic change that happened to Henry. They didn’t seem particularly keen on his new look and when I asked what had happened they did that ‘you’ll understand when you’re older’ thing.
In my youthful innocence I didn’t realise that Henry had decided for himself to become Henrietta. I assumed that he’d woken up one day and found he was girl. Now this is where it gets a bit embarrassing. I was so terrified of changing that I used to keep a close watch on what was happening ‘down below’. I was convinced that one day I’d look down and see the start of one of those horrid boy things!
Obviously I understand all about it now. After all I’m thirty next week! I got used to Henrietta eventually and I even dressed up as fairy when he – sorry, she got married. However the wedding confused me even more because instead of her (he) marrying a fella, she (he) married a girl. That one I’ve never got my head round.
I’ve just remembered a joke. How do you define a transvestite? A man who likes to eat, drink and be Mary!