tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-31440953943703557272024-03-13T02:45:03.247+00:00roseys poseyRoseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.comBlogger91125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-75372838467280738032019-12-29T16:20:00.000+00:002019-12-29T22:00:19.678+00:00I hate glass!<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.68; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><i>I'm having a go at <b><a href="http://sundayphotofiction.com/"><span style="color: red;">Sunday Photo Fiction</span></a></b> this week!</i></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222121; font-family: inherit; font-size: large; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre;">I</span><span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222121; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">’m forever cutting my fingers. I should have shares in Band-Aid, I buy more than my fair share of them.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222121; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">It's glass’s fault. It’s too sharp. It’s too fragile. It’s too splintery. It falls apart too easily. I broke a mirror once. They say that brings bad luck. Too right, the mirror had cost me a small fortune! </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222121; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I wear glasses for reading (not wine glasses!). I put them on once and one side was all bleary so I grabbed a tissue and tried wiping them but I poked myself in the eye because the lens had popped out of the frame when I wasn’t watching - not that I’d have seen it of course.</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; color: #222121; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; font-weight: 400; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Anyway, a bunch of us were round Julien’s pad the other night having drinky-poos and peanuts. He made us some posh cocktails. Lord knows what was in them but they looked great in his expensive cocktail glasses. Well, he proposed a toast and we all went clink-clink-clink very cautiously, but for some reason, a chunk of glass chose to break free from mine. I was devastated! I mean, what a WASTE of alcohol! </span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="background: transparent;"><i><span style="color: red; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;"><b>Thanks to Donna for hosting. </b></span></i></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "arial";"><span style="background: transparent;"><i><span style="color: #222121; font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">The picture is by ifelias @Morguefile</span></i></span></span></div>
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Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-89152034847494198852019-12-28T16:02:00.001+00:002019-12-28T16:23:35.478+00:00I'm back!<div dir="ltr" style="background-color: white; line-height: 1.68; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
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<span style="color: #444444;"><span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;">It’s still here! My blog! I thought it would have wandered off feeling unloved. After all, I’ve not written anything on it since I was in volunteering Africa nine years eleven months and two days ago, and that’s a long time. Isn’t it?</span> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444;">My friend Keith says I should bring it back to life so here I am, wondering what on earth to write. He said a nice person called Sammi throws a word into the ring on Saturdays and asks us to come up with a story using it. I just looked and it’s complex - the word that is, not the challenge, that’s actually quite simple. Except there’s a word limit of 41 and brevity is not my strong point. (No need to nod your head so enthusiastically!) </span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444;">Let’s have a go….</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><span style="color: #444444;">Conny invited me to a party in her apartment. It’s in a complex which lives up to its description because I had to walk round and round and up and down just find where her bloody door was! Worth it though.</span></i></span></div>
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<span style="color: #444444;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyDnizTPtsjlYCF05lOyZVsBFYGICd43y0Clvq8WPRsAZkXd179W5X2pdDnuM-MsW9z4Z7bbz5SZgeuqIPLjI6Mjvy4Cu7zpuYZ2FpP960nxiynFqQZBceUt3azjBk7AZ3Z48I0J9YBM/s1600/gggggg.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="1169" height="51" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibyDnizTPtsjlYCF05lOyZVsBFYGICd43y0Clvq8WPRsAZkXd179W5X2pdDnuM-MsW9z4Z7bbz5SZgeuqIPLjI6Mjvy4Cu7zpuYZ2FpP960nxiynFqQZBceUt3azjBk7AZ3Z48I0J9YBM/s200/gggggg.jpg" width="200" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444;">I should have warned you about that naughty word, explicit content I think it’s called. Sorry!</span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444;"><i>Click </i></span><a href="https://sammiscribbles.wordpress.com/category/weekend-writing-prompt/"><b><span style="color: magenta;">HERE</span></b></a><span style="color: #444444;"> <i>to take part or see what others have come up with.</i></span></span></div>
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<span style="background-color: transparent; font-family: "arial"; font-size: 14pt; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span style="color: #444444;">So, there we are. I'll try not to leave it so long next time - maybe just eight years! Only kidding, bye x</span></span></div>
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Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-90181647639808470182010-01-26T16:25:00.004+00:002019-12-29T19:58:32.256+00:00A note from afar!<div class="MsoNormal">
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Hi, it's Rosey P across the sea! Greetings from a hot and dusty African village.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I’ve found an internet cafe in a village not far from where I live. I use the term cafe lightly! It’s certainly not the sort of place you’d come to for lunch! I just had a cup of coffee – it was SO bitter it nearly sucked me inside out!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">They sell a local beer here. I don’t know what’s in it but a few feet away from me a group of men are sitting at a table covered with empty bottles and they are sort of swaying. Actually, it could have something to with what they’re smoking! I’m trying to ignore them but right now all I can see out of the corner of my eye are ten sets of grinning teeth and twenty swimming eyes! It is a problem being the only white-skinned blonde-haired female in the area. That’s not strictly true, because I’ve never really felt threatened in any way. Having said that I never stray far from home on my own, and right now my friend who is a fellow teacher from school with me. His name <span style="mso-ascii-font-family: "Lucida Sans"; mso-ascii-theme-font: major-latin; mso-hansi-theme-font: major-latinfont-family:";">is Nangwaya </span>which apparently means ‘don’t meddle with me’ so I feel pretty safe when he’s looking out for me! Apparently, the web is not a very reliable round here. Broadband doesn’t exist in the parts so if I suddenly stop midsentence don’t worry!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Oh golly-gosh, have you heard about those full-body scanners they are putting into airports? How embarrassing. They were trying them out at Heathrow when I flew out a couple of weeks ago and was asked if I minded going through one. I didn’t think anything of it at the time and I said I didn’t mind. After all, it was bad enough having to stand there barefoot and holding my jeans up (they made me take my belt off), I didn’t think it could get any worse. When I got through someone commented that I’d been brave to volunteer. I asked what she meant and she explained that the person looking at the screen could see all of me – underneath my clothes! I had no idea. Thank goodness I had clean underwear on! Apparently, it’s soon becoming compulsory so I have decided to try and track down some lead-based wool so I can knit myself a lead bra and knickers! That’ll fool them!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">At school, we’ve been practising native songs to sing to a group of tourists that are visiting the village tomorrow. The songs we normally sing are pretty much the same as kids sing back home, but I don’t think our visitors would be very impressed if we treated then to an African version of Row Row Row the Boat or The Wheels on the Bus go Round and Round! We’ve also been making handicrafts which we sell to provide extra funds for the school. Guess what, I’ve even got some of them involved in my hobby, knitting, although the demand for woollen gloves and scarves is pretty limited in these parts!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I’m out of change and the computer will switch itself off in a moment, so I’ll stop now. Hopefully, I’ll be back on my blog thing again soon.</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="https://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0;" /></a>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-78374146727603400222009-12-21T00:00:00.003+00:002019-12-29T19:59:45.258+00:00I'm home for Christmas!<span style="color: white;">.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">It’s me, Rosey! I’ve come back for Christmas. I’ve only got a couple of weeks here and then it’s back to Africa for a few months. So much to do and so little time.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I’ve got to see Keithy, visit Fuz and Scruf, take a look at the allotment, meet up with my friends, buy some wool and knitting needles, and pop into school before the kids break up on Tuesday.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I’m hoping there will still be some snow on the ground. I remember having a snowball fight in the playground last winter. It was so embarrassing – I got snow in my eyes so I couldn’t see where the snow I was throwing was going! (that rhymes!). It took the head teacher all afternoon to dry out!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">It’s strange to think that the children in my school in Africa have never seen snow, except in pictures. Most of them never will. It would be wonderful if there was a way I could take a snowman back with me!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Must go, things to be getting on with. I’ll try and leave a few words here before I fly away again. In the meantime, have a great Christmas. I know I will!</span><br />
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-40106138139363178082009-09-06T22:42:00.008+01:002019-12-29T19:35:52.004+00:00Toodle-pip<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;">I don’t like long goodbyes so I’ve decided to slip away quietly. When the sun comes up on a brand new day I’ll be above the clouds and on my way to my new life 8000 miles away working with children in Namibia.</span><br />
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<span style="color: white;">.</span><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="https://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" style="background: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; border-bottom: 0px; border-left: 0px; border-right: 0px; border-top: 0px;" /></a> <span style="color: #cc33cc; font-family: "verdana"; font-size: 130%;">xxx</span><br />
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<span style="color: white;">.</span>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-70364686191441165462009-09-02T22:36:00.003+01:002019-12-29T20:02:38.986+00:00Will you miss me?<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I’m in a rut! I really am. I’m thirty years old and I’ve done nothing with my life. So I have decided to break free!</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Loads of my friends are married - several have children, but I haven’t, so I reckon this is the moment to add a little adventure to my existence.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I love my job to bits. Working with kids is great fun, but I’m not a real teacher and to be honest my job could never really be termed a career. I’ve got my allotment which is fab, but giving it up is hardly going to make an impression on third world starvation. I knit like crazy, but I’m running out of people who want scarves and mittens.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">So I’ve decided to take a few months out, and use my freedom to do a little bit for the planet or its people. I want to get away and look at my life from a distance. Then I can hopefully make a contribution somewhere in the world whilst at the same time decide exactly where I’m going from here.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I love penguins so my friend Whitesnake suggested I see if there were any opportunities down in the Antarctic. He thought that with nothing but ice and flightless birds around me I’d have plenty of opportunities for reflection. And he thought that maybe I could do my bit to help save the planet down there where things seem to be going wrong.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Trouble is, I can’t see myself going anywhere without things like my hairdryer. Call me vain, but that’s how it is. It occurred to me that every time I turned it on I’d melt a bit more ice and that would defeat the object of the exercise! And of course, if I took my fabulous water bed it would probably freeze solid! </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">Then I heard about something called VSO. I believe it stands for Voluntary Service Overseas. Actually it was a teacher at my school who told me about it and she thought that I could get a job similar to the one I have now, but working in a village in Africa with children less privileged than those I currently look after. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">That was several weeks ago and I’ve now applied for a placement in Namibia. They told me that education there is suffering due to high incidence of aids in the country. Many teachers and assistants are unable to work as they have either contracted the disease themselves or have to look after family members who are sufferers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">If all goes to plan I’ll be away in three weeks. My cats Fuzzybut and Scruff are going to stay with a friend and I’ll rent out my flat to give me a little income whilst I’m away doing unpaid work.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I’ve decided not to continue with my blog while I’m away. Instead I’ll keep Keithy up to date with my goings-on and he’ll let you know what I’m up to.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">So, please don’t forget me! I certainly won’t forget you and I hope you’ll all still be around when I get back. I’m missing you already! xxx </span></div>
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<a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" style="background: transparent; border: 0;" /></a>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-6812573490438978762009-08-23T18:20:00.007+01:002019-12-29T20:03:57.726+00:00Always the bridesmaid!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">' </span><br />
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<i><span style="font-size: large;">Hey, it's Sunday Scribbling time again! Today we have a one word prompt and it's ADULT!</span></i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Over the last few years I’ve been to lots of weddings. So many of my mates and cousins have got themselves spliced. Then they seem to go from being fun loving party animals to rather dull couples who enjoy nothing more than a night in beside the telly with a nice cup of tea.</span></div>
<img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373213046969208930" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifvDgAiqySgHAM6rDOEyjkJGQEkND523ZAYZsA6cvIL49SLmvRatdBatwBX0stuJo-_LIxjeWBis-vBYr4c-XSvpbGYlHZWZ2wrqIrSEech-U_1975SuSgBr3eHuG7lTPNnc_9ETvEIzk/s200/wedding.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0 10px 10px 0; width: 200px;" /><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have of course,become an expert in the duties of the Bridesmaid and the (wait for it) Matron of Honour! Me a matron! Wooo!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And I every time I perform my role my Father says the same thing ‘Miss Rosemary Pinkerton, always the bridesmaid never the bride’. Grrrrrrr!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Most of the nuptials take place in damp dark grey walled churches where a bored looking vicar spouts the usual stuff about obeying and procreating children. And almost without fail a nervous friend of the couple will go to lectern and read a piece from the bible – a book they have probably never seen since they were in RE classes at school!</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And it’s always the same bit – Corinthians Chapter 13 which goes on like ‘love is patient, love is kind, is not jealousies, not pompous, it is not inflated (beg pardon?) it is not rude (he-he!)</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But the bit that makes me want to stamp my size eight on the floor is the bit which says’ When I was a child, I used to talk as a child, think as a child, reason as a child; when I became a man, I put aside childish things’.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Obviously I’m not a man, but it’s not that makes me cross. You see, the thing is I still like to talk as a child as many of you are only too aware! I have no intention of putting away childish things - my Teddy stays exactly where it is!. And when faced with a problem I find it much easier to work through it if I reason like a child. I have no problem with being a child and an adult at the same time. And ok, I admit it - I still suck my thumb when I go to bed. If all that has to go, then marriage 'aint for me! </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">You always hear people saying ‘Ooo, I love children’. But how often do you hear someone say ‘Ooo I love adults’. It’s just not the same.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As many of you know I enjoy the best of both worlds because I landed the best job in the universe. I’m a classroom assistant to a teacher with a class of seven and eight year olds and I spend my days at play whilst getting paid for it.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I’m shopping I see many of the kids from my class in the mall and so often they are dressed like mini adults. If only they realised how precious the innocence of childhood is, they wouldn’t be in such a rush to leave it behind. I rest my case!</span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: white;">.<br />.</span>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-30939741760104462892009-08-21T20:03:00.008+01:002009-08-23T18:39:41.302+01:00This is a bit rude ......sorry!George and Mary had never been abroad before. They didn’t trust foreigners, and they heard that the food in other countries was different from ours. They didn’t mind the odd Indian curry, but they really preferred E<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKnU1eNAkByTt-GIlEAAqqIDg8Y2yuweh4FWg6Zqg3hZ2pq23Uny6iha8KCaO65s02SG-q0C38P7bmYQNz4HEdKkHJhqqOtTn4nQ1Exzf0Jqi2Q7GEdnpFbLF8BUcJ0rugfR2HSUMKJM/s1600-h/St+Tropez.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 261px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372495423643199826" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgWKnU1eNAkByTt-GIlEAAqqIDg8Y2yuweh4FWg6Zqg3hZ2pq23Uny6iha8KCaO65s02SG-q0C38P7bmYQNz4HEdKkHJhqqOtTn4nQ1Exzf0Jqi2Q7GEdnpFbLF8BUcJ0rugfR2HSUMKJM/s320/St+Tropez.jpg" /></a>nglish things like fish and chips and sausage and mash. They weren’t sure how they’d get on with the language either but someone told them not to worry because in Spain everyone spoke English. So when they decided to be adventurous, the Costa del Sol it was. Viva Espana!<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span><br />They soon found out that almost every restaurant in their resort offered English food - the all-day breakfast fry up and Steak and kidney pie appeared on almost every menu. But one day George decided that they should be a little more adventurous so they wandered into a Spanish restaurant in search of something a little more local.<br /><br />The menu was written in two languages but even in his native tongue George found it a little difficult to work out quite what was on offer, so when the waiter approached they thought it best to ask for his recommendation.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span><br />‘¡Buenas noches!’ he said with a flourish of his arms ‘iu‘nuestra comida especial es hoy guisado de la bola' He could tell by the look on Mary’s face that he was not getting through to them. He started again. ‘Good evening madam and sir’ he said ‘today spezial deesh eeze guisado de la bola’<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />Rather than get into a difficult conversation with the waiter they decided to order two of the special dishes.<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />Well, they were pleasantly surprised. They were each given a thick stew with two enormous meatballs in the bottom. It was delicious although there was a little more than Mary could manage. They asked the waiter to tell them what exactly the meatballs were and through by using a combination of ‘Spanglish’ and hand signals (some which embarrassed Mary) he explained that when the matadors killed the bulls at the local bull ring the unfortunate animals testicles where supplied to the restaurant to use in their special dish.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />Anyway, the day before George and Mary were due to return to the UK they thought it would be fun to go back to the restaurant and order two more portions of guisado de la bola. But when it arrived they were a little disappointed. Instead of two enormous meat balls in each there were two tiny ones. George called the waiter over and asked why it was different from the last time they had it<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />‘Ah señor’ he said ‘Today ze unfortunate matador he lost’<br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><span style="font-size:180%;">*</span></div><br />Now you are probably wondering why I told you that story! Well, it’s because I came across a great recipe for this under rated and very cheap cut of meat . It's a Spanish twist on Hungarian goulash and I thought I’d share it with you!<br /><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><div align="center"><strong>cocido húngaro del testículo</strong><br /><br />2-3 tablespoons vegetable oil<br />4kg of bull testicles<br />2-3 onions chopped<br />A beef stock cube<br />1 clove garlic crushed<br />ground pepper<br />thyme chopped<br />mint herb chopped<br />small can tomato puree<br />salt<br />1 tbsp plain flour<br />200ml Spanish white wine<br />1 tablespoon honey<br />2 squares cooking chocolate<br /><br />Cut testicles into thin slices. Fry briefly, adding finely chopped onion, garlic, black ground pepper, tomato puree and chilli pepper. Cook while gradually adding water. When nearly finished, add white wine. When wine evaporates a bit, add beef stock cube, pepper, thyme, red pepper, mint herb and a tablespoon of flour. Mix all well until wine completely evaporates and at the very end add honey and chocolate.<br /><br />Serve with crusty bread and a bottle of Rioja! </div><br /><br /><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 340px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 340px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5372495215200369906" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhMKN68Ht6p-cMVvQemF3L1IdTZnHPHkSAJ5tfQYLjUv_hB6Folt5NVO_haVKFbNmfJ0x9Eo7KkhPZkxWxe7iA8CpREiJ1lO19Nx5JHd6h3keUy9ACx52IeZWBJ5lG5F4JHi_e9mAXk20I/s400/bull_fight1.jpg" />Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-20594109350387917142009-08-16T21:51:00.019+01:002009-08-17T22:58:40.740+01:00My dinner party<p><em><span style="color:#ffffff;">'</span></em></p><p><em><span style="color:#cc66cc;">Here is my </span><a href="http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/"><span style="color:#cc66cc;"><strong>Sunday Scribblings</strong> </span></a><span style="color:#cc66cc;">post. It's about a fantasy dinner party</span></em></p><br /><p>Now this is fun! I’m going to hold a pretend dinner party for eight people including me. I’m going to have a mixture of people including a couple of dead ones! Obviously I don’t want corpses sitting there. I’ll get a few batteries to make sure they get going! I think it will be a good idea to chose people who each have a talent which they can use to entertain us.<br /></p><p>I’m sure if Keithy has started reading this he’ll be busily scanning down the page to see if he’s invited! Well, I’ve not decided yet. We’ll see how we get on..<br /></p><p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM3ludhU6a3MWcOh1VQXtkpP42prx9pat49drT2ldIZBETYzLOcA-f1L7ERJgT5FTeELvHg3aTTyQ8b1mGs59FMT-uVEKdB9NofwoMFUhLn0q1gFFyV0aZJHQq9la_rK_oZ5Z4paBoCMA/s1600-h/images.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 99px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 122px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370670794487947906" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgM3ludhU6a3MWcOh1VQXtkpP42prx9pat49drT2ldIZBETYzLOcA-f1L7ERJgT5FTeELvHg3aTTyQ8b1mGs59FMT-uVEKdB9NofwoMFUhLn0q1gFFyV0aZJHQq9la_rK_oZ5Z4paBoCMA/s200/images.jpg" /></a> Did I tell you I’ve got a karaoke machine? I love it although I’m not so sure my neighbours share my enthusiasm! I reckon a couple of songs would be just the thing to get the party going, and the best person to kick it off would be Luciano Pavarotti! Actually he’ll probably need more than a couple of Duracell's to get him fired up. I might have to plug him into the wall! I think he should start with Nessan Dorma. Keith once tried to tell me that it was a song about the Loch Ness monster! Another time he told me it was about a new Japanese car. But I know exactly what it’s about because Nessan Dorma means ‘you shall not sleep’ in Italian. So I think that’ll be the perfect tune to set the theme of the evening. As he is Italian he probably likes spaghetti and meatballs so I’ll put those on the menu .<br /><br />I could take the easy route and just invite my blogging mates, but I’m not going to do that. The only one I might bring along is Whitesnake. Actually I might have to warn him to behave himself. He can be a bit rude at times. Hey, did you see his Carry On Tuesday poem last week? I was so <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrGk_HC0mHyQGjLgpQNflS94qvYoRmtoHHZV_PBhEAF1oAc8seC_Jgk5uzZA7V7kveF4eMxRO1Q8vwyHPhNFc9u67MOjyseR6R36HYolgIvD3YIXr8-xwpYkC52LxdeUJnye2w8iX36E/s1600-h/SDC10587.JPG"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 81px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 131px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370670610991119058" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZrGk_HC0mHyQGjLgpQNflS94qvYoRmtoHHZV_PBhEAF1oAc8seC_Jgk5uzZA7V7kveF4eMxRO1Q8vwyHPhNFc9u67MOjyseR6R36HYolgIvD3YIXr8-xwpYkC52LxdeUJnye2w8iX36E/s200/SDC10587.JPG" /></a>embarrassed when I read it. You can <a href="http://whitesnake45.blogspot.com/2009/08/cot-in-trap.html"><strong><span style="color:#ff99ff;">click here</span></strong> </a>to see it if you want but it’s not for the easily offended! I’ll put him in charge of jokes and witty remarks and just hope he behaves himself. Now, he comes from down under so I’d better get some kangaroo meat.<br /><br /><br />We need a<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6nu_BkUsqDT3LYV3zL9F4IL52D8FwZjfNOeSFXby26dTNfAnEDc2lfmtda1Us1wx9-7fp2BR1msdBniDPdBwF_L9CXjLGiG6QBjI8iNpNB23PXnZiHYJLxfRUZHWRg0KNeqq-89Pz2U/s1600-h/johnny_depp.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 154px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370668358375266178" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiG6nu_BkUsqDT3LYV3zL9F4IL52D8FwZjfNOeSFXby26dTNfAnEDc2lfmtda1Us1wx9-7fp2BR1msdBniDPdBwF_L9CXjLGiG6QBjI8iNpNB23PXnZiHYJLxfRUZHWRg0KNeqq-89Pz2U/s200/johnny_depp.jpg" /></a> thespian. I love that word. Thespian! I think I’ll invite Johnny Depp. I’ll insist he comes dressed in his pirate fancy dress from his films. I want him to have a parrot on his shoulder and a hook in the place of one hand! What food can he eat with a hook? I know - sausages! I’ll get him to stand up and recite Shakespeare ‘What's in a name? That which we call Rosey by any other name would smell as sweet’.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Do you think the Queen would come? Last year I went to <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGr1KaP7k6BjhTrRKJNI7W3RpA_qIfhidVptIVxTscqpojCCNyrhku6ERzWT6FmlFDveIjbTdG6LgTzqXjEiUh0-qfP75ras7886l7lL1Q3G4zOHHWX9S4s_ucDPNSVCaRALLdBs9GGN4/s1600-h/royalqueenoe6.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 166px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370689917164662082" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGr1KaP7k6BjhTrRKJNI7W3RpA_qIfhidVptIVxTscqpojCCNyrhku6ERzWT6FmlFDveIjbTdG6LgTzqXjEiUh0-qfP75ras7886l7lL1Q3G4zOHHWX9S4s_ucDPNSVCaRALLdBs9GGN4/s200/royalqueenoe6.jpg" /></a>her garden party at Buckingham Palace so I suppose it’s only polite to ask her in return. I know she likes cucumber sandwiches and fairy cakes because that’s what she gave us but I don’t they would be right at my dinner party. There is a dessert called Queen of Puddings, so we could have that.<br /><br /><br /><br />Now there’s one person you won’t have heard of. He’s Jeremy Dawson and we know him from th<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ytr4z9vUh0jW271Po2TQ7FpCg4AG3ecNOhV3qqdBVOy8jXHR_SQ2V06jOG5n_jy8wLMCWR3k2CD_EFc_gghiaQ-TbVgrDucItkiUQsE53E55_kfJEGKuTNF76tkFveDNz_PNNsXRNQY/s1600-h/DSCF0504.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370667883372361714" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7ytr4z9vUh0jW271Po2TQ7FpCg4AG3ecNOhV3qqdBVOy8jXHR_SQ2V06jOG5n_jy8wLMCWR3k2CD_EFc_gghiaQ-TbVgrDucItkiUQsE53E55_kfJEGKuTNF76tkFveDNz_PNNsXRNQY/s200/DSCF0504.jpg" /></a>e pub. He is a children’s entertainer and does amazing things with his balloons! He also paints kids faces and I thought it would be fun if he were to paint ours. I’d like to look like a cat. Quite what he’d do to the Queen I don’t know! His party piece is to produce a rabbit from down his trousers. Actually he’d probably like us to have some of my famous rabbit pie!<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4MLDD2dbDlV1k0bHG221FtAY2iyFvG3uSX2vRpm81EOQ1_MwKuycy7GecDOK53L0Ty7sRDVvYU7ZClVITocpr2EwXkW-kICHOL7noBbh-4OrbiZHKoSC3HA-kdeFQlvlyE1grDMjibs/s1600-h/XRSP0CA1C3ASQCAK8MNKFCAP2TKYGCA8W2CENCAF6U1RYCA33X6AACA400GP0CA54L57MCAKTD5BGCAATDK7ZCA7719ALCATRW1MECAAR072VCAR0311QCAD96S31CAI8O0G5CA1USXQHCAUBC7EL.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 116px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 118px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370667679556917330" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgO4MLDD2dbDlV1k0bHG221FtAY2iyFvG3uSX2vRpm81EOQ1_MwKuycy7GecDOK53L0Ty7sRDVvYU7ZClVITocpr2EwXkW-kICHOL7noBbh-4OrbiZHKoSC3HA-kdeFQlvlyE1grDMjibs/s200/XRSP0CA1C3ASQCAK8MNKFCAP2TKYGCA8W2CENCAF6U1RYCA33X6AACA400GP0CA54L57MCAKTD5BGCAATDK7ZCA7719ALCATRW1MECAAR072VCAR0311QCAD96S31CAI8O0G5CA1USXQHCAUBC7EL.jpg" /></a><br />I thought I’d also invite Alice. You know, that pretty little girl with the looking glass who comes from Wonderland. She must have some amazing stories to tell. She should feel quite at home sitting at the table with us because I remember seeing a film of her at the Mad Hatters tea party. As she’s a child she’ll probably want a McDonald's.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCYkaIe8dKfW_jLViuj03HEW8WHCZ8vAY10e_MBjLb89OOQ8zj0XylId-uupkyvgB5_xRwsJUuTaLxG5X6omsSbiaSUu29JuR5mMGhgRdTVq62CBsb0q2NDmhrcANrqM0PT8eHMNVq-c/s1600-h/e4c9f3eb120081b982e27daebb70849a_eee.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 178px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 200px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370667323448957138" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuCYkaIe8dKfW_jLViuj03HEW8WHCZ8vAY10e_MBjLb89OOQ8zj0XylId-uupkyvgB5_xRwsJUuTaLxG5X6omsSbiaSUu29JuR5mMGhgRdTVq62CBsb0q2NDmhrcANrqM0PT8eHMNVq-c/s200/e4c9f3eb120081b982e27daebb70849a_eee.jpg" /></a><br />Do you remember me telling you about Bert? He’s got the allotment next to mine and he has grown the most amazing vegetables this summer. Mine haven’t really got going yet. The other day he had in his hand the biggest carrot I’ve ever seen! It made my eyes water! His curly kale is legendary and as for his cucumbers – words fail me. I don’t think he’ll be a bundle of laughs at my dinner party but if I invite him I should get my vegetables for nothing. I suppose he could have half an hour of so answering our gardening questions. I understand the Queen is quite an expert in the cultivation of radishes. At least I think that’s what I heard.<br /><br /><br />How are we doing? We’ve got Pavarotti, Whitesnake, Johnny Depp, The Queen, Jeremy the balloon man, Alice , Bert and me. Great. That’s eight of us. Any minute now my phone<br />will ring and it’ll e Keithy asking why he’s not invited! I have an idea. He used to be a chef so I’ll get him to cook for us! Sorted.<br /><br /><br />Now this is going to be fun!<br /><br />. </p>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-67626155570886068122009-08-10T21:34:00.012+01:002009-08-10T21:58:29.906+01:00I love my cats!<span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><div align="left"><span style="color:#33cc00;">This is my go at<a href="http://carryontuesday.blogspot.com/"><strong> <span style="color:#33cc00;">Carry On Tuesday</span></strong> </a>13</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTy1-vSrbuAS5iwozSZCk4H3byAzGsk_NooubEDN6qYabL26LC-4fTm0lNCiD9FA2h0I_S1Iol5OL89V9LVLYGGuEBIIzU0XlF0e6V8nz9AMZd1u2110O8ZVyA_istRE_hRub0jpMBkQ/s1600-h/White_Cat_VI_by_rafalhyps.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 320px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 242px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5368438444921521026" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQTy1-vSrbuAS5iwozSZCk4H3byAzGsk_NooubEDN6qYabL26LC-4fTm0lNCiD9FA2h0I_S1Iol5OL89V9LVLYGGuEBIIzU0XlF0e6V8nz9AMZd1u2110O8ZVyA_istRE_hRub0jpMBkQ/s320/White_Cat_VI_by_rafalhyps.jpg" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7CAsS7DQAaofSpZPAeukhOsKz_KsRHYYaBPFf1L917OSsl3vc8IYWSDP46GOCw4K38xvU1DUWIcQ9sTsXSakCC583_QilgKZ4gnghiVEgxVvSjjSxPrIZYvbDZM1GkoCj5uF3gmpP38c/s1600-h/White_Cat_VI_by_rafalhyps.jpg"></a><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em></em><br /><em><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#33cc00;"><span style="font-size:130%;">We think we know the ones we love<br />I thought I knew my cat<br />Until one day he left for me<br />A dead mouse on my mat</span> </span></em><em><span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span></em><span style="color:#ffffff;">'</span></div><div align="left">Actually I’ve got two cats, Fuzzybut and Scruff and I love them to bits. But I couldn’t rhyme cats (plural) with mat (singular)!<br /><br />And I do love my cats; it’s just that I don’t know them very well. I know what they like to eat, I know where they find most comfortable – on my bed or on my lap! But what goes on in their devious little minds is a mystery. I mean, they should know that I hate mice, dead or alive. I thought they hated them too because one day when a mouse ran across my bedroom I jumped up on my bed and they jumped up too! So I really didn’t expect them to deposit one on the rug in front of my fireplace!<br /><br />My friend Keith is a bit anti-pussy (oh! that sounds terrible!!) He thinks that cats are inherently evil and they prowl around planning the day when they’ll rule the world. I’m not certain he really thinks that, because he does have a habit of winding me up in the hope I’ll believe him then make a fool of myself in front of our friends! I’m not convinced.<br /><br />Someone once told me that cats are loners. They only sit on you because the like the warmth from your legs. They say that cats are only affectionate because they need you to feed them! They also say that dogs have masters and cats have servants.<br /><br />I suppose dogs are quite clever. After all, if you throw a ball they’ll fetch it and bring it back- I can’t imagine Fuzz and Scruff doing that. And dogs help blind folk cross the road and that’s very clever too. But when I look into my cats eyes I get the feeling that they are thinking deep thoughts. Perhaps cats are the clever ones and they have a little smile to themselves when they see dogs performing for their masters while they sit around just purring, preening and being waited on.<br /><br />So what I’m saying is that I love my cats but I’ll never really know them. As for men they are even more difficult to get to know. On second thoughts I’m not going there! Hey, I feel another poem coming on!<span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:130%;color:#33cc00;">Dogs they bark and cats just purr<br />Dogs have hair and cats have fur<br />But when it come to which is best<br />I know which pet that I prefer!</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></em></div><div align="center"><em><span style="color:#ffffff;">. </span><br /></div></em>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-50380233300907420582009-08-03T00:27:00.003+01:002009-08-03T00:40:53.743+01:00The journey<span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><em><span style="color:#cc33cc;">This week I've combined </span><a href="http://carryontuesday.blogspot.com/"><span style="color:#cc33cc;"><strong>Carry On Tuesday</strong> </span></a><span style="color:#cc33cc;">with </span><a href="http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/"><span style="color:#cc33cc;"><strong>Sunday Scribblings</strong>!</span></a></em><span style="color:#cc33cc;"><br /></span><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />It was several years ago. Quite a few in fact. I could only have been about sixteen, but I remember it as if it was yesterday.<br /><br />My parents decided that we’d go away for a weekend camping. I was so excited. Up until then the only holidays I’d had were in posh hotels – we even went on a cruise ship once. All of my friends had been camping and I’d always been envious of them. All those stories of spooky noises in the night, creepy crawlies tickling you and having a pee behind a bush! It sounded GREAT!!! I was so anticipated! (Oh dear, that doesn’t sound right but you know what I mean!). But my story is in the journey, not the destination.<br /><br />My father being my father would never have been satisfied with any old tent. No, ours was the size of a bungalow! It had two bedrooms and a main room – my mother called it a drawing room! In a tent, whatever next! Well, we had quite a big car but it wasn’t big enough for our tent to go inside so he tied it to a rack thingy on the car roof! I was crammed into the back seat surrounded by cases and bags, but I didn’t mind because I was so excited.<br /><br />So off we went, charging up the motorway heading for the New Forest in Hampshire. We hadn’t got very far before I became aware of lots of hooting noises behind us. I looked out of the back window and I noticed that the cars behind us were falling back and the drivers seemed to be waving. I waved back thinking that they were being friendly, but then I realised that they were pointing at the roof of our car. I told Daddy that there was something wrong and he told me not to be stupid and suggested we play Eye Spy.<br /><br />Then I heard the screeching of tyres, and through the back window I watched cars going this way and that like so many dodgems, and our tent was bouncing down the road between them. I thought it was so funny!It was like something out of a comedy film! Daddy however was not amused. He was more worried about his tent than the possible carnage he could have caused.<br /><br />The police were not too impressed. Gave him a lecture which he didn’t exactly enjoy. We eventually got it fixed back on the roof and when the police were satisfied it was safe, we carried on our way.<br /><br />A few miles later we had to turn off into a narrow road. It was very windy and went up and down a lot. We climbed up one hill and when we got to the top there was a sharp corner then a steep drop downhill. Daddy went around and down a little too fast and we almost ended up in a ditch. And then a tractor pulled out of a gateway right in front of us and Daddy slammed the brakes on so hard that I nearly shot out of my seat! You should have heard the language! Then the funniest thing happened – the tent broke free again and catapulted through the air and straight into the trailer on the back of the tractor! I was desperately trying not to laugh, so much so that I nearly wet myself!<br /><br />We eventually stopped the tractor and got the tent back. Dad had a word with the farmer driving the tractor and we arranged to pitch our tent on his farm instead of going to the New Forest.<br /><br />The holiday was a letdown. It rained, my clothes got wet and my magazines got wet too. Peeing behind a bush was not nearly as much fun as I thought it would be and I got stung by a wasp. Mummy couldn’t get the hang of the camping stove and the final straw was when a gust of wind blew the tent down.<br /><br />But the journey to the camp was fun and it made the whole thing worthwhile. I’ll certainly never forget it.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BORDER-RIGHT: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" /></a>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-76736892741839968782009-07-29T15:37:00.009+01:002009-07-29T15:58:13.848+01:00I went to Goodwood!<span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span>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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4-Uxevaso_SYEbutwGwk8_Oyz68vLfffTTYW2wGXISYc4RifcKRoiUwZs_2C_qI0mzD4NZbuodT8NFb4ndQZ_8UWBoMdn9Ob84DGieAPqlKpT-nlsTNLenFlyUqZNXQyZQKRI3vNGAg/s1600-h/goodwood2009+015.JPG"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 364px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5363891878123541890" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhb4-Uxevaso_SYEbutwGwk8_Oyz68vLfffTTYW2wGXISYc4RifcKRoiUwZs_2C_qI0mzD4NZbuodT8NFb4ndQZ_8UWBoMdn9Ob84DGieAPqlKpT-nlsTNLenFlyUqZNXQyZQKRI3vNGAg/s400/goodwood2009+015.JPG" /></a><br />Anyway, I have to go now. I’ve got to get down to my allotment and dig some dirt! Bye.<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-89382011596368249402009-07-24T21:18:00.009+01:002009-07-25T00:49:02.353+01:00Where in the World quiz!<span style="font-size:85%;">The<em> <a href="http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/"><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Sunday Scribblings</span></a></em><a href="http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/"> </a>post this week is <em><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Where in the world</span></em>.</span><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!)<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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!<br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">.</span><br />When you have finished leave me a comment at the bottom and email me your answers to me at <a href="mailto:roseypinkerton@aol.com"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;">roseypinkerton@aol.com</span></a> ! What a hoot!<br /><br />So, here goes. The time starts..........NOW!<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmk_Me4xOB8XeFTw9_vTN789I15la64mbBuQuCZbpygeB7xlmtvx4t_jkOVSZQSLYvXmtqZeblndfUdUQ__WGCZ89ZKI7fagh-PwbfCL7lW_uRoYqYTTX3kn8MWpbYzUYsSWGsoeroRo/s1600-h/quiz1_148343d.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 144px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362125986339995874" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwmk_Me4xOB8XeFTw9_vTN789I15la64mbBuQuCZbpygeB7xlmtvx4t_jkOVSZQSLYvXmtqZeblndfUdUQ__WGCZ89ZKI7fagh-PwbfCL7lW_uRoYqYTTX3kn8MWpbYzUYsSWGsoeroRo/s400/quiz1_148343d.jpg" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5IBFkBQn2_H0_AivVXx37tt7OsCoj13-JAau0jqZSg1cAX5hXY40bChrX1JFkS18eLNc1aes_pMvUtZjRhuQV1eps0bbyMxOlXH0XBoyyPV8z3z1YRqLUv1LSX6XH2t9VPdKViCG7kc/s1600-h/quiz2_148342d.jpg"><img style="TEXT-ALIGN: center; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; DISPLAY: block; HEIGHT: 212px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5362125790194238194" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEju5IBFkBQn2_H0_AivVXx37tt7OsCoj13-JAau0jqZSg1cAX5hXY40bChrX1JFkS18eLNc1aes_pMvUtZjRhuQV1eps0bbyMxOlXH0XBoyyPV8z3z1YRqLUv1LSX6XH2t9VPdKViCG7kc/s400/quiz2_148342d.jpg" /></a><br />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'.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhagg4jwirryzfK98_nBiQm9gA3UfSRVBrshL46mJpElWSrPaOuiY-1aWYDlNvCb7nvx5SWVhfNuW9qnb36Z8PISX_wTNj7ddful48EDnlilG69zUqjyLCMnITMlcJ-lJevWL3_zQlCZlU/s1600-h/quiz2_148342d.jpg"></a><br />But I don't care. Have fun!<br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BORDER-RIGHT: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" /></a>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-23821945327526396152009-07-19T19:37:00.011+01:002009-07-19T20:08:10.606+01:00The big plan!<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#FFFFFF;">.</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;">This weeks prompt at <b><a href="http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#6666CC;">Sunday Scribblings</span></a></b> is The Plan which is quite funny because last weekend I had a plan, but unfortunately it didn't ecxactly go to err.. plan!</span></i></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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:-</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;"><i>To pull the weeds</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;"><i>And dig the ground</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;"><i>To sow some seeds</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;"><i>Put fence around</i></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;"><i><br /></i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;"><i> </i></span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;"><i>Plant some plants </i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;"><i>and paint the shed</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;"><i>and drink some wine</i></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC33CC;"><i>Then home to bed</i></span></p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi16pqXI87wIgdjR3k875iJgQSiCUW-cEL7kCcx4eL59Y4UkDKW4mIHm6vB4ZjVJXbbeohAK8CkPIwSj3efmvotSJYiH0tz7FAtVAknuSIYooedHPOOdszoyCc63C1AYqlhnS_RKYkpvaQ/s200/img_2417.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360245894191713730" /><p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal">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!)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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!)</p><p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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!!!)</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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.</p><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgy3AIIfS5CvlqCS7nNt1pkZYaM1EI6Jeg8Kx67wGw2eFIhsn11Oj_etjGPVYFDNl0O3iogokOoYntii48UDG5rOsNsQFLpa3EQoqyR6_9errsZjCaK5-9upiCv1GQzusFQrpbCH9bBCDU/s200/allotment_pink449.jpg" style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 170px;" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360243891715957138" /> <p class="MsoNormal">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?) </p> <p class="MsoNormal">Actually its quite funny because I now have lots of pink weeds too and they are extremely rare!</p> <p class="MsoNormal">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? </p> <p class="MsoNormal">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 </p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p> </o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">Paint upon my chinny-chin</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">Paint upon my wrists</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">I’m sitting here </span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">And drinking wine</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#CC66CC;">I feel quite pinky pissed!</span></i></p> <p class="MsoNormal">Bye bye for now! </p><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" style="border: 0 !important; background: transparent;" /></a>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-85827079809293234822009-07-11T00:00:00.004+01:002009-07-11T00:41:00.666+01:00Moan moan moan<span style="color:#ffffff;">.<br /></span>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!<br /><br />Well, Actually I <em>didn’t</em> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Anyway I’m seeing him tomorrow night so he’ll just have to wait until then.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><em>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 ?</em> <em>Because it's rude not to speak to your paw'. Is that funny? I don't think so.<br /></em><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BORDER-RIGHT: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" /></a>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-36827953475037714392009-07-03T00:59:00.005+01:002009-07-03T07:54:24.407+01:00About cousin Henry<p style="LINE-HEIGHT: normal; mso-margin-top-alt: auto; mso-margin-bottom-alt: auto; mso-outline-level: 2" class="MsoNormal"><b><span lang="EN" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><i>Fiction Friday <span style="FONT-WEIGHT: normal" class="Apple-style-span">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!</span></i></span><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p></o:p></span></b></p><p class="MsoNormal">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.</p><p class="MsoNormal">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!</p><p class="MsoNormal">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!</p><p class="MsoNormal">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.</p><p class="MsoNormal">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!</p><p class="MsoNormal">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.</p><p class="MsoNormal">I’ve just remembered a joke. How do you define a transvestite? A man who likes to eat, drink and be Mary!</p><p class="MsoNormal">Bye x</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BORDER-RIGHT: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" /></a>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-71942239431746674722009-06-28T21:27:00.003+01:002009-06-28T21:34:03.830+01:00Toys!<span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><em><a href="http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/"><span style="color:#000000;">Sunday Scribblings</span> </a>has come up with the word 'Toys' as the prompt this week</em><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br />I’ve been on writing strike! <a href="http://keithsramblings.blogspot.com/"><span style="color:#cc33cc;">My friend Keith</span> </a>(hey, I’ve done my first solo link!) had women problems (again) and said he’d got writers block (actually I think he was playing the sympathy card). Anyway I refused to write until he got his act together. Not that it did any good; I don’t think he even noticed!<br /><br />Anyway, up popped this prompt about toys and I suddenly remembered that I had a box of my old toys stored away in my Ma and Pa’s attic. ‘Let’s dig it out Rosey’ I said to myself. Do you do that sometimes? You talk out loud to yourself and then feel a complete idiot! Fuzzeybut and Scruff (my kitties) looked at me as if I was mad!<br /><br />While I think about it, have you ever heard Keith boast that he was married for twenty one years? What he doesn’t always say is that it was in three lots of seven!<br /><br />Where was I? Oh yes, my toys. To cut a long story short I got the box from the attic (I don’t like going up there ever since I trod between the beams and put my foot through the ceiling plaster!) then blew the dust off the lid causing me to sneeze in a violent fashion, put it in my little car, took it home, opened it, sneezed again, and there they were! Lots of my childhood toys.<br /><br />Unfortunately this is where my tale goes downhill. I was so excited about what I’d find, but as one by one I took out the toys, I thought that I must have been a very boring child indeed. I mean, most little girls had sparkly tiaras and angels wings. I had a policeman’s helmet and a strange back pack with a picture of a train on it. I’d forgotten that I never owned a Barbie doll or a jewellery box with a pirouetting plastic fairy on it. But I had an action man and an Oxo tin full of silly badges instead of girly necklaces and bracelets. I did find a Teddy bear, but even he had a sarcastic smirk on his face. I had a few toy cars, a cowboy gun and a book about tying knots. There was a catapult and a magnifying glass and a broken plastic skeleton.<br /><br />It was SO depressing. Anyway, I packed it all away again and right now it’s sitting by my front door so I can take it back to my parent’s loft next time I visit them.<br /><br />I’m sorry if I’ve made a few mistakes. Usually I run everything I write past Keith but right now it’s not worth the bother. Actually I don’t think I did too bad (sorry Keithy – I think that shoud read badly!)<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-41160428012066989992009-06-05T20:32:00.006+01:002009-06-05T21:23:25.221+01:00About my Aunt's cat.<em><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></em><br /><em><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></em><br /><em>The folks over at <a href="http://writeanything.wordpress.com/"><strong><span style="color:#cc66cc;">Fiction Friday</span></strong> </a>have given us the following prompt.<strong><span style="color:#cc66cc;">'Don't sit there' she commanded 'that's the cat's chair'</span></strong></em><span style="color:#cc66cc;"><br /></span><em><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></em><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih-2mgW7OcEIAnMPF6HjNcoLXMCR04fll1Efk4J6N4xI-2TIRLWuC-6-eCB5DXEj1xtrnLWRkhW6vI85s37fV54hBmUNTDntD8I1RKkpK7wtoPCDbjuIwytoEgxejDbOXtT4TWYta2BVQ/s1600-h/magnet.jpg"><img style="MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 241px; FLOAT: left; HEIGHT: 320px; CURSOR: hand" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343934146663939554" border="0" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEih-2mgW7OcEIAnMPF6HjNcoLXMCR04fll1Efk4J6N4xI-2TIRLWuC-6-eCB5DXEj1xtrnLWRkhW6vI85s37fV54hBmUNTDntD8I1RKkpK7wtoPCDbjuIwytoEgxejDbOXtT4TWYta2BVQ/s320/magnet.jpg" /></a><br /><div>I once had an ancient aunt. Great Aunt Maud she was called. Fortunately we didn’t often see her because she lived in an old folks home in the north of England several hundred miles away. Just her and her big round tabby cat called Moucher. </div><div><br />Now don’t ask me where she got that name from. I investigated it once and I found out that to moucher means to blow a child’s nose in French. But more interestingly it is also the name given to someone who smokes other people cannabis. I remember Great Aunt Maud used to smoke, and Moucher was probably a passive smoker, but weed? Not so sure. Mummy used to call it Mousetrap! </div><div><br />When I was a kid I was terrified of her. She was a little deaf but refused to use a hearing aid. She was clearly unaware of how loudly she spoke. Did I say spoke? Bellowed would be a better word to use! </div><div><br />I was, believe it or not a shy child, particularly when I was in the company of my Aunt. She would yell a question at me and I would start to answer, but as I spoke she would glare at me and my voice began to tail off! ‘Speak up gal!’ she would scream. </div><div><br />I suppose I was about twelve when I last saw her. It was our yearly visit and I can still see my parents and me filing into her room for our annual audience. There she sat, arms folded over her ample bosom and dressed in a blue and yellow floral dress the size of a tent! Her hair was skillfully sculpted and tinted in her favourite lilac colour. Wisteria she called it. ‘Sit child’ she boomed ‘you are making the place look untidy’ </div><div><br />I backed toward a chair and started to sit down. <em>‘Don’t sit there,’ she commanded. ‘That’s the cat’s chair’.</em> Unfortunately it was too late and I felt a soft lump of something under my bum. I jumped up again, turned round a there was Moucher, motionless,looking somewhat flatter than usual with its mouth open and two glassy eyes peering up into space. </div><div><br />I was mortified, and began crying uncontrollably. ‘Stop grizzling child’ she yelled. ‘Just plump him up then go and sit over there. I paid good money to have him stuffed when he passed over , but I didn’t intend him to be a cushion’. </div><div><br />When I told her I thought I’d killed Moucher she actually smiled. I’d never seen her smile before and I never did since. She also passed over. It wouldn’t surprise me if she’s still sitting there in her chair next to Moucher, both of them comfortably stuffed! </div><div><span style="color:#000000;"></span></div><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BORDER-RIGHT: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" /></a><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><em>My friend Keith asked me to remind you about </em><a href="http://carryontuesday.blogspot.com/"><strong><span style="color:#cc33cc;"><em>Carry on Tuesday</em></span></strong></a><em>. The new prompt will be up on Sunday to give you plenty of time to compose your piece!</em><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;"><em>.</em></span><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;"><em>.</em></span>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-39923518427805126552009-06-02T23:24:00.006+01:002009-06-05T18:21:15.021+01:00About my dreams<p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><?xml:namespace prefix = o /><o:p><i>It's </i><a href="http://carryontuesday.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3366ff;"><i>Carry On Tuesday</i></span></a><i> again! If you want to know what it's all about click on <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#3366ff;"><strong>here. </strong><span style="color:#000000;">Th</span></span></i></o:p><o:p><i><a href="http://carryontuesday.blogspot.com/"></a>is weeks prompt is <strong>There are sleeping dreams and waking dreams. What seems on not always as it seems.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#ffffff;">..</span></strong></i></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal">Dreams are curious things. <strong>There are sleeping dream and waking dreams.</strong></p><p class="MsoNormal">I mean, the other day I looked down and noticed I was wearing one black shoe and one blue shoe. I thought ‘never mind, it’s only a dream’. I actually was dreaming, but I was having a day dream in which I thought I was having a night dream. And I was wearing odd shoes much to the amusement of the kids in my class.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Waking dreams have often got me into trouble. I’m the first to admit that I am prone to daydreaming, and what makes matters worse is that I talk to myself during my daydreams! I get really carried away sometimes and do all the voices of the characters in my dream. How embarrassing! I also speak home truths during these little outbursts and they don’t always go down terribly well.</p><p class="MsoNormal">My sleeping dreams are usually good fun. Always when I hop into to bed I curl up and wait for my dream to start. It’s like going to the movies but without popcorn! I have the odd nightmare now and again, but that’s fine. After all, I love horror films.</p><p class="MsoNormal">The trouble with waking dreams is that they usually happen when you should be doing something else, and often you are convinced you’ve done something that you should have done when in fact you haven’t done it at all.</p><p class="MsoNormal">Just changing the subject for a moment, the other day I went into the school kitchen to see if I could find something to nibble. Chef wasn’t there and I noticed a big pot of something bubbling on the cooker. Ah, soup I thought. I found a ladle and put some into a mug. When I tried it YUC!I realised that it was the water in which chef was boiling her dirty tea towels. And the moral of this story? <strong>What s<span style="font-size:180%;">t</span>eams is not always as it seems!</strong></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes"></span></p><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BORDER-RIGHT: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" /></a>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-51514523727431901342009-05-30T23:12:00.004+01:002009-05-31T00:33:41.307+01:00Covert Cheryl<em><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></em><br /><em>It's <a href="http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/"><strong><span style="color:#ffcc00;">Sunday Scribblings</span></strong> </a>time again! This weeks word is <span style="color:#ffcc00;"><strong>Covert .</strong></span></em><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;"><br />.<br /></span><span style="color:#ffffff;"></span>I’ve got this friend called Cheryl. She’s got several jobs including one as a Special Needs teacher at my school. She also<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhtXdAHhwQxpjHVSAGoOIoN1SBTILs87d_D_8vgavxyPO5bvpIhbNncOzJM3MtNZpQTA7h9QKvg_A9dAJIFYR3fZguwRU6CSgie_A5D2osw70_NHPPdYQqUc33qOCyVXkViBXMsive9E/s1600-h/classic-disguise_LRG.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341744711486850050" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 138px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPhtXdAHhwQxpjHVSAGoOIoN1SBTILs87d_D_8vgavxyPO5bvpIhbNncOzJM3MtNZpQTA7h9QKvg_A9dAJIFYR3fZguwRU6CSgie_A5D2osw70_NHPPdYQqUc33qOCyVXkViBXMsive9E/s200/classic-disguise_LRG.jpg" border="0" /></a> works behind the bar at the Bicycle Arms a couple of sessions a week, but the reason I’m telling you about her is that she also has a little job as a Mystery Shopper! You know, those sneaky covert people who walk into businesses pretending to be a customer when they are actually doing a secret appraisal of their hapless victim.<br /><br />When she first told me about it I imagined her disguising herself by wearing a false beard and stuffing a cushion up her shirt in case she got recognised, but they usually send her far away from home so it can’t happen.<br /><br />I thought she would get a voicemail which started "Your mission, should you choose to accept it..." But she doesn’t. She just gets phone call asking to go here or there and pretend she need a new cell phone or something.<br /><br />She gets all manner of assignments. I get to go with her sometimes. The other day I went to a shoe shop with her and a few weeks ago we tried a restaurant! What A great job!<br /><br />The funniest one was a weekend at an upmarket camp site. She had to take two friends with her for a whole weekend and stay in a holiday home which looked like a trailer but it didn’t have any wheels. Julie made up the three of us.<br /><br />Soon after we got settled in Cheryl filled out her forms about the reception we got, the cleanliness of the home, what we thought of the bar and those sorts of things. Then it was time to party!<br /><br />She popped down to the village and got some essential supplies. Cheryl came back with a take-out Chinese meal, chardonnay, champagne and chocolate (Gosh look at all those words beginning with ‘ch’! Ch ch ch ch ch - I sound like a steam train!)<br /><br />A couple of hours later a party was in full swing. We turned the music up, (maybe a little too ‘up’) and that attracted a couple of guys who persuaded us to let them join in. Actually they were Australians and one of them was called Steve just like Whitesnake – you know, the bloke that leaves sarky comments at the bottom of my posts?<br /><br />Anyway they brought some grog with them, a case of long necks, and in no time at all they were zonked. Then there was a bang on the door. Steve opened it and there was a sheila outside. She was a bit of a grizzle and told us to go bite our bums. Steve said she was bloody galah but probably bangs like a dunny door!<br /><br />The upshot was that in the morning we were asked to leave the site. Not surprising really! I asked Cheryl if she’d get the sack, but she said of course not because the site owners thought she was a private customer. Between us we filled in the remaining forms, guessing about the standard of things like the entertainment, the swimming pool and the shop so her boss thought we'd stayed all weekend! How naughty! We had a ball and Cheryl got paid! Reeeeesult!<br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" /></a>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-91809637103638485162009-05-28T23:02:00.011+01:002009-05-30T01:04:54.022+01:00About Keithy's Big 500<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbIfDravhMqHWMaBeUUYFV9XB1MH6bA_GE8sxg_YG6_K8lL7lwfgPgOenEgmGCP3Qj_WSVRSYjOrIRCTgUuaAAQS_KKYiHZ4eWH5sRNMyco6DfEw51lE1U_Czz_x1CNMEbOaMz71BzGc/s1600-h/champagne_toast.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5341000603076127010" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 179px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHbIfDravhMqHWMaBeUUYFV9XB1MH6bA_GE8sxg_YG6_K8lL7lwfgPgOenEgmGCP3Qj_WSVRSYjOrIRCTgUuaAAQS_KKYiHZ4eWH5sRNMyco6DfEw51lE1U_Czz_x1CNMEbOaMz71BzGc/s200/champagne_toast.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div><div><div>Hey, have you seen Keith’s blog? He’s just published his <a href="http://keithsramblings.blogspot.com/2009/05/number-five-hundred.html"><strong><span style="color:#3333ff;">500th post!</span></strong> </a>What? Unbelievable.</div><div><br />Mind you he does spend an awful lot of time hunched over his computer. Take my advise and don’t ever ring him when he’s being ‘creative’. You’ve probably heard him complaining about people who use swear words. ‘Pure laziness’ he says. ‘Shows a poor command of the English language’ he says. He certainly gets lazy if you ‘interrupt his thought processes’!</div><div><br />Oh, I must tell you what happened today. I felt a complete idiot. I was buying a ticket for the train, because I was meeting Keithy for lunch in Bexhill (because that’s where he lives) and whilst I was queuing I couldn’t help noticing that one of the guys behind the ticket counter was pretty cool. Well when I got to the front of the line that funny electronic voice screeched ‘please go to position five’. Guess what? It was Mr Cool’s position! He gave me a lovely smile and said ‘How may I help you?’ I decided against saying the first thing that came into my mind (it was a little rude) and told him I needed a ticket to Eastbourne. He pointed out that this was Eastbourne and chuckled. How embarrassing! </div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div>So I tried again and asked him for a ticket to Bexhill. Then he looked at me with that great big smile and said ‘Single?’</div><div><br />I thought ‘Wa-hey! I think he’s chatting me up’ so I looked him straight in the eye, moved my hand to where he could see I had no wedding ring, and half whispered ‘Yes, single’.</div><div><br />Then he went all serious and started tapping the keys on his machine and a ticket popped out. ‘£4.60 please’ he said. I said it was usually £6.20 and he said that £6.20 was the price of a return ticket. I said that I needed a return ticket so I could come home and he said ‘You asked for a single’. I felt a right prat, I can tell you! </div><div><br />Where was I, Oh yes, Keith’s big 500. That’s it really, not much else I can say about it except that he asked me to tell you that there is a glass of champagne for you if you care to join him in his celebrations. I said that was daft, nobody is going to travel half way around the world for a sip of bubbly. He raised his eyes to the ceiling (the way he does) and said he was joking. And anyway, he doesn’t have any champers. All I got was a bottle of luke warm beer.</div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;">.'.</span> </div></div></div><br /><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" /></a>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-85391166684175921192009-05-24T23:06:00.007+01:002009-05-26T00:17:32.907+01:00About Molly Sue's great performance<span style="color:#ffffff;">'</span><br /><div><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffffff;">'.'</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">My friend Keithy has been trying to persuade me to join in <strong><a href="http://carryontuesday.blogspot.com/"><span style="color:#000000;">Carry On Tuesday</span></a></strong>, so I thought I'd have a go. The prompt is the opening of Siegfried Sassoons poem entitled Everyone Sang - <strong>Everyone suddenly burst out singing, a</strong></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><strong>nd I was filled with such delight</strong></span> </em><em><span style="color:#ffffff;">..</span></em></div><div><em><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></div></em><a href="http://carryontuesday.blogspot.com/"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5339904475903144690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 96px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2NDdb0Tp5Q82hGCo_O_daw3fV40Koysmv6EIwDmdR70ixiJ6GgOqe6CYRz1JZR73QT1Xi13WpzoZCnN97ZUvszKSUkXE811AjmkdzSd_kqxmSlvLaa5NoeVx_0HRNwz_dDPdBp1RXY8A/s200/MyImage_2xxxnn.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />She was the smallest child in my class. Little Molly Sue was knee high to a grasshopper we used to say! But what she lacked in stature she made up for personality, and when she smiled she could light up the dullest day. Having said that, she never really said very much. She didn’t need to. Her personality spoke for her.<br /><br />What makes us different from the other schools in the town is that we encourage the kids to throw themselves into art. Our register is to say the least multi-national, and art is a way to involve and integrate children from many different cultures. And performance art is one of the most popular parts of our curriculum.<br /><br />Every year we have a school concert. Like most schools it used to be held in our assembly hall, but such was the reputation of the show that a decision was made a few years back to move the production into the towns largest theatre so that the audience could include members of the public as well as family and friends.<br /><br />And this is where little Molly Sue comes into the story. Every year she found herself as one of the background singers or dancers. Somehow, no one ever thought to push her to the front. Until she joined our class!<br /><br />It was her final year in our school. In a few months she would be joining hundreds of kids at the ‘big school’. I decided to give her a starring role in the finale And the song we thought suited her best would be Castle on a Cloud, the song from Les Miserable sung by the young Cosette.<br /><br />Straight away we began rehearsing. Her little voice was perfect for the song, and in no time at all she had made it her own.<br /><br />The big night arrived. Every act during the performance had the audience shouting for more. And then it was time for the big finish.<br /><br />Behind the closed curtain all three hundred children squeezed themselves onto the stage. The curtain went up and there, kneeling in front of them, was Molly Sue in her ragamuffin clothes bathed in a pool of light.<br /><br />The soundtrack started. Molly opened her mouth and.....nothing. I can still see her face now.<br /><br />Two thousand people looked on in silence, and she stared back. Tears began trickling down her cheeks as she tried to see me amid that sea of faces. I got out of my seat and walked toward the stage, but before I got there, the children behind her realised what was needed! A few at a time they started singing and then a few of the audience started joining in. Then <strong>suddenly everyone burst out singing.<br /></strong><br />Molly Sue wiped the tears away with the sleeve of her shirt and began to beam. By now I was standing in the wings. The song finished and I decided to start the soundtrack again, and she started to sing.<br /><br />It was like listening to the voice of an angel. I couldn’t see for tears. It was spellbinding; there was hardly a dry eye in the house. When she finished the crowd remained silent for a second or two whilst they got back their breath, then two thousand people stood as one. The applause was deafening. <strong>I was filled with such delight</strong>.<br /><br />I don’t have any pictures or film of her singing that night, but I have found this video on YouTube which is so like her performance that it could be her! I hope you enjoy it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><br /><object height="285" width="340"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/0u9QNYjYvYQ&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><br /><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/0u9QNYjYvYQ&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&border=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="340" height="285"></embed></object></p><br /><p align="center"><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" /></a></p>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-57422259236893867012009-05-22T23:27:00.004+01:002009-05-22T23:57:36.036+01:00Am I worried? Well, actually, yes.<div align="left"><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">On<strong> <a href="http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/"><span style="color:#6600cc;">Sunday Scribblings</span></a></strong><a href="http://sundayscribblings.blogspot.com/"> </a>this week we've been given the word <strong><span style="color:#6600cc;">Worry</span></strong> to write about.</span></div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"> </div><div align="center"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3kLXb0-WEqwJySp3NPqCy9N6CgwOwu3Gk-29Z_Eg4w2PswIfqpJ6hFbzBlf2AR8mcgfkT6ZWiSi_GyaVbMP0e3Nx_474rfK6m1UddyXkx-xAmlnF9DBMwOgMmM1e6N6uOWFL4aIX-fU8/s1600-h/2767504-2-dont-worry-be-happy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338783890822418850" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 296px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 243px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3kLXb0-WEqwJySp3NPqCy9N6CgwOwu3Gk-29Z_Eg4w2PswIfqpJ6hFbzBlf2AR8mcgfkT6ZWiSi_GyaVbMP0e3Nx_474rfK6m1UddyXkx-xAmlnF9DBMwOgMmM1e6N6uOWFL4aIX-fU8/s400/2767504-2-dont-worry-be-happy.jpg" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:courier new;"><span style="font-size:78%;">' </span><span style="font-size:85%;">don't worry - be happy' by claudia alves on deviant art</span></span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div align="center"><span style="font-family:Courier New;font-size:85%;"></span> </div><div align="left">I keep telling myself that I should worry more about the big things. I don’t mean elephants! (although perhaps I should because they are still being cruelly hunted) No, I mean big things like global warming and disappearing species and the global monetary crisis and poverty and emmisions and terrorism. Those sorts of things. But they all seem so much bigger than me. Does that make sense?</div><div align="left"><br />I get told to recycle things, use low voltage light bulbs, save water, use public transport, re-use my supermarket bags and ya-de-da-de-ya-de-da. I say “what difference can little ‘ole Rosey make?” and they say “if everyone took that attitude where would we be?” and I say “I suppose”, but I’m just not very good at being good.</div><div align="left"><br />Know what? I worry about not worrying enough about those great big things.</div><div align="left"><br />But I am a worrier (is that how you spell it? I’ll worry about that now!). If worrying was an Olympic sport I’d win gold for England! I worry about my nails, my clothes, my hair, and my makeup. When I go to bed I worry about oversleeping and being late for work in the morning. When I leave for work I worry in case I’ve left something turned on at home which should have been turned off. When I’m at work I worry about some of the children in my class when they seem upset about something. When I leave work I worry about whether or not I’ve done my job well enough, and when I get home I worry about eating the wrong food (bad food tastes so much better than good food)</div><div align="left"><br />Gosh, I sound a right misery-guts! </div><div align="left"><br />Anyway, I’ll leave you with a few words about worrying. I didn’t write it. You may have seen it before, I certainly remember it from years ago and it’s always remained in my mind (heck – what a clumsy sentence! Am I worried though? No!)</div><div align="left"><br />It’s called Two <em>Things to Worry About</em>.</div><div align="left"><br /><em>There are only two things to worry about:</em></div><div align="left"><em>Either you are well or you are sick.</em></div><div align="left"><em>If you are well, there is nothing to worry about;</em></div><div align="left"><em>but if you are sick, there are two things to worry about:</em></div><div align="left"><em>either you will get well, or you will die.</em></div><div align="left"><em>If you get well, there is nothing to worry about;</em></div><div align="left"><em>if you die, there are only two things to worry about:</em></div><div align="left"><em>either you will go to heaven or to hell. </em></div><div align="left"><em>If you go to heaven, there is nothing to worry about.</em></div><div align="left"><em>But, if you go to hell you'll be so darned busy shaking hands with friends you won't have time to worry...</em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></em></div><div align="left"><em><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></em></div>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-24608044848804435432009-05-13T18:56:00.007+01:002009-05-17T21:45:51.447+01:00Its easier with the legs disconnected!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkE2sEDC_8nwQZCD4d1YVb7HMNedf55QYLoSzgIFuuuO9i0V8EkelDnNJqnBztoOFb1GQhha1cUf0cumYxhtIKlxR8GWyFGIPJCsr10MtatxhbIEY3k5s8ckeC-x2ZzemEMDK-CbdtXJE/s1600-h/tailor.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5335371861163231378" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 140px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 195px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkE2sEDC_8nwQZCD4d1YVb7HMNedf55QYLoSzgIFuuuO9i0V8EkelDnNJqnBztoOFb1GQhha1cUf0cumYxhtIKlxR8GWyFGIPJCsr10MtatxhbIEY3k5s8ckeC-x2ZzemEMDK-CbdtXJE/s320/tailor.gif" border="0" /></a><br /><div><em><span style="font-size:85%;">It's Sunday Scribbling time again and I'm writing about disconnected legs</span></em></div><div><em><span style="font-size:85%;color:#ffffff;">'</span></em></div><div></div><div>I walked past a store selling men’s suits today and it made me think about the fun I had when I worked for in a tailors shop for a few months after leaving my finishing school. It was called Frobisher, Purveyor of Gentlemen’s Attire. My Father was one of his customers, and I remember him telling me that his real name was Foster. He changed it to Frobisher because it sounded grander but no one was fooled! </div><div><br />I had to wear very dull clothes for work. It was during a stage in my life when I wore gear to shock, clashing colours, short skirts and enormous clomping shoes. At the shop I was in black and white with a tape measure around my neck.</div><div><br />Frobisher specialised in hand made suits. There was a workshop at the back which was run by Naylor. That's what he was called, not <em>Mr </em>Naylor or <em>Nathaniel</em> Naylor or anything like that. ‘Naylor the tailor could have been a sailor’ I remember saying one day. He had a couple of men sewing for him. I never spoke to them. They turned up at nine, quietly got on with the job then went at six. I’m not sure what their job title was. Seamstresses are ladies who make dresses, so perhaps they were seamen. No, perhaps not!</div><div><br />Part of my job was to measure the customers. Naylor stood next to me with a clipboard, and as I measured the clients arms and chests and things, he would lick his pencil (the way old people do) and write the figures down. The tape measure was a special one with the first six inches made rigid so I didn’t have to hold the top. This was so I could measure the inside leg without nudging ....... you know what! </div><div><br />Always when it became to this part, Naylor would say ‘Would Sir prefer to have a gentleman take this measurement?’ They usually said yes which was quite fortunate. I mean, the rigid part was only six inches long. I mentioned this to Naylor and he pointed out that most of our customers were elderly and shrinking, so six inches was more than sufficient! He thought that was funny and he said he was only pulling my leg.</div><div><br />Talking of pulling legs I didn’t realise that you could pull the legs off the dummies which stand in shop windows. We had four, two white, one black and one which was old and turning yellow and cracked. Actually I found them rather grim. They had no heads! They just stood there like victims of the Texas Chainsaw Massacre!</div><div><br />Anyway, I was told to change the suit on one of them. It felt odd standing in the window. It was like being on stage and everyone outside stared. I took off the tie, I left the shirt (Mr F said I could) and then I came to the trousers. I looked over my shoulder and noticed I had an audience of grinning young men. Well, I wasn’t sure what I was going to find inside the trousers. I loosened them, looked inside and found to my horror discovered that the dummy had no underwear on! ‘Be strong Rosey’ I thought, and with a flourish I yanked down the trousers. To my relief there was very little detail down there!</div><div><br />Then I had the job of putting the new trews on. As I said I didn’t know that the legs pulled off, so there I was with a virtually naked plastic man over my shoulder, heaving and pulling as hard as I could. Well, I came out in a sweat, I can tell you (actually ladies don’t sweat, they glow. It’s like they don’t fart, they let out love-puffs). When I eventually succeeded, I realised I’d put them on back to front! I thought that once the belt was on with the buckle facing forward, no one would notice. Wrong! Mr Frobisher was ‘not best pleased’ (one of his favourite expressions). He looked at me over his little half spectacles and said 'It's easier, Miss Pinkerton with the legs disconnected. He proceeded showed me how to take the dummy to pieces and from then on I never had a problem again. I tried to demonstrate my expertise at trouser removal in the pub one night, but I couldn’t find a volunteer!</div><div><br />Oh, I must tell you, one day we had a posh old lady enter the shop. ‘Girl’ she shouted ‘do you sell ladies intimate apparel?’ Well I didn’t know what she was talking about, so I glanced over to Tom, one of the assistants and <em>he</em> hissed ‘knickers’. I told him not to be rude to me, and then he whispered that the lady was asking if we <em>sold knickers</em>. Anyway, I told her that we only sold men’s clothes and I sent her on her way. </div><div><br />Tom told me a funny story about something he saw once when he had to hand some clothes to a man who in a changing room. The man was standing there in lacy knickers, stockings and suspenders! Honestly! </div><div><br />That reminds me, I once had a customer ask me if we sold suspenders. I said we didn’t, and that he needed to go to shop selling ‘ladies intimate apparel’ (my new favourite expression). 'Not for stockings my dear' he boomed, 'socks' He smiled then pulled up his trouser leg, and just below his knobbly knee he had a stretchy band with a strap attached which clipped onto his sock! ‘These are sock suspenders young’ lady he said. I’d never heard of such a thing. And guess what, Frobisher sold them! It’s amazing what secrets men keep hidden under their trousers!</div><div><br />That reminds me we also sold trouser braces in lots of colours and patterns. I didn’t realise people still wore them. Actually my friend Keith does now and again. He’s got a red pair which he loves. Once I couldn’t resist the urge to ping them! ‘Ouch’ he shouted. I told him that if he didn’t have those man-boobs he wouldn’t have felt a thing! We also sold bow ties which you had to tie yourself, not the ready made ones. But we didn’t sell spinning bow ties or those fabulous ones which squirt water!</div><div><br />We specialised in formal wear, morning suits which people wore to weddings (even in the afternoon) and dress suits. That’s an odd name. You’d expect a ‘dress’ suit to have a skirt! As far as I’m aware the only skirts men wear are those kilts. Did you know, men don’t wear anything under kilts? There was a shop which sold kilts just up the mall. I was thinking how embarrassing it would be if a man was trying one on and the curtains in the changing room weren’t quite closed. I asked if they had any jobs but they didn’t! Only joking! </div><div><br />One day an old fellow came in and said he needed a wescott.</div><div><br />‘A what-cott?’ I said.</div><div><br />‘A wescott’ he said ‘a white wescott’ </div><div><br />‘Weally,a white wescot. Well, I’ll encwire’ I said (I didn’t really, I just made that up!)</div><div><span style="color:#ffffff;">.</span></div><div></div><div>I had no idea what he was talking about (again!) so I explained that I needed to ask Mr Frobisher. He told me that <em>wescott</em> is the correct pronunciation of waistcoat. How about that?</div><div><br />There is so much more I could tell you but I’ve taken up enough of your time already. I only stayed at Frobisher for a few months, but boy, I had fun! </div><div></div><div><em><span style="font-size:85%;">PS. It occurred to me whilst writing this that my friends overseas may become a little confused by some of my terminology. For instance, suspenders in the UK are devices for holding up stockings (and socks!) and nothing else. Those stretchy things which stop men's trousers falling down are braces, and what Americans call pants, we call trousers. Pants to us are men's underwear. Its like US purses are our handbags and our our purses are those little chaps you put your money in. Confusing or what?!<br /></span></em><a href="http://www.mylivesignature.com/" target="_blank"><img style="BORDER-RIGHT: 0px; BORDER-TOP: 0px; BACKGROUND: none transparent scroll repeat 0% 0%; BORDER-LEFT: 0px; BORDER-BOTTOM: 0px" src="http://signatures.mylivesignature.com/54487/96/48F05F57CBEE1E0DBFA59D2AB7F4630A.png" /></a> </div>Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3144095394370355727.post-66913730140664011992009-05-08T00:44:00.005+01:002009-05-08T09:32:33.515+01:00If I could turn back time<span style="font-size:85%;"><em>This is the prompt on Fiction Friday this week ‘A man is given the ability to go back in time and change one event in his life’. Well, ever the rebel, I’m going to change it! My piece will be fact not fiction, and about a woman not a man – moi in fact! I won’t be changing an event, but I’ll tell you about an event I wish I could change because it cost me money! </em>
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<br /></em>It was a few years ago, and I was wandering down the street with some loose change in my hand and somehow I dropped a penny on the pavement. As it was falling I thought ‘it’s only a penny, I’ll leave it’. And then I heard my grandmothers voice in my ear (not literally, she’d been dead ten years). ‘Look after the pennies and the pounds will look after themselves’. In retrospect I thought an awful lot in the few seconds it took for the penny to hit the ground!
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<br /></span>So, heeding Gran’s words I bent down to pick it up. Okay, so I did stop rather suddenly, but even so the woman behind me with a baby buggy shouldn’t have been following that close. She ran into my bum with a bump and knocked me head first onto a lamp post. ‘Ouch’ I said (actually that was not exactly what I said!)
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<br />And then I saw stars. Now I’m used to seeing stars at night, but not on a sunny summer’s day. Clearly all was not well. I also felt something wet and warm trickling down my chin. Last time that happened it was chocolate fondue but it didn’t taste like melted Cadbury’s so I figured it must be bloooood!
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<br />Next thing I know I’m sitting on a wheelie bed thing in Accident & Emergency at the hospital. To cut a tediously long story shorter, all I’ll say is that I was not terminally injured (obviously) and in no time at all I was sitting up wondering how the hell I was going to get home!
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<br />Then it happened. An extremely good looking young man smiled at me! I smiled back, you would have too. He stopped and asked me if I was alright (my eyes had glazed over again!). I said I was fine considering my ordeal, and explained my predicament i.e. I was miles from home with no means of transport. He told me that he’d just visited his friend. My hint worked and in no time at all I was in his Merc heading towards town. (I noticed a sticker on his car which said he’d bought it from my father’s car dealership)
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<br />So that’s how I met Samuel. We became an item and it was nice.
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<br />We had a great time. I remember once he took me to a concert, but we didn’t stand in the auditorium because he was friend of the star and we stood in the wings (why do they call the side bits of a stage ‘wings’?). He was obviously very famous. I have to admit that when choosing a CD to play, I like Liberace best and find Ludacris ludicrous so I had no idea who he was.
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<br />In fact I’ve forgotten again! You must know him. He’s tall, black, has a gold front tooth and loads of bracelets. He doesn’t sing, he’s a rapper and he sort of talks in a jerky way to loud backing music and says ‘man’ a lot.
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<br />We went to a backstage party afterwards and I expected a sordid and debauched affair, but it was all very respectable. People wandered around with glasses of champagne and talked about the performance as if it had been fine art!
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<br />I got to know his parents quite well. His father knew my father, they both belonged to Rotary. He was an accountant (probably still is) and I remember thinking he didn’t look boring enough to sit looking at numbers all day. I told him it didn’t add up! Well I thought it was funny. Anyway, his family were clearly very high up the social scale because they had been invited to a garden party at Buckingham Palace as guests of Mr and Mrs Queen. I was invited too! How about that?
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<br />It was nice. We had little tiny sandwiches and bite size cakes. You could have a cup of tea or a glass of wine. I had wine. They didn’t have any of my favourite supermarket chardonnay, so I made do with a drop of Ber<a href="http://www.bbr.com/db/product/00045B/Berrys-Chablis-Domaine-du-Colombier"><span style="color:#333333;">rys' Chablis, Domaine du Colombier</span></a>, Premier Cru 2006, a cheeky little number with a smooth texture and aromatic bouquet I was told. Sam said it was made from chardonnay grapes so I said I’d make do with it.
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<br />There was press photographer wandering around and he took a picture of me! Great I thought, Hello Magazine here I come!
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<br />I love to boast that I’ve met the Queen. Actually that’s not strictly accurate, because there were hundreds of people there I only <em>saw </em>the queen. At least I think I did. She was a long way off and from a distance one old lady in a hat covered with ribbons and bows looks very much like another!
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<br />As my friends know, Samuel and I didn’t last long. My fault, I’m not the settling down type. And I didn’t make the front cover of Hello, but a picture of me at Buck House did pop up in a minor national newspaper. By an amazing co-incidence an old school friend spotted it and managed to track me down. Sheila was her name. She was living in Ireland and she was about to get engaged to someone who was ‘in horses’. She insisted I jump on a plane (jump <em>in </em>a plane I think that should be) and go to the party, so I did.
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<br />We were in a big manor house with a classical string quintet playing in the corner. There were loads of people there all making idle small talk. Actually it was little boring, although I’ve never said as much to Sheila.
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<br />Well, there I was giggling over my glass of champers when I felt a tap on my shoulder (makes me sound like a sink!). I spun round spraying a bit of the bubbly stuff on some old fellows shoes, and there behind me stood Sheila with her parents. They didn’t remember me from our childhood, but then I didn’t remember then either! They did look a bit stuffy. Then Sheila said she wanted me to meet her fiancé Michael. I looked around expecting to see a wealthy horse trainer striding tow<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAfJ7bTPQlPVuNQF3_gHuanexdqdkTCqopowz5o-qjWLbYbpm3WuqG2QMH7GChXbaeKOLKtngo_1tlWJKNudXc1DH0oHtIA2H4rjX01i7d0nvzLQfarSG6-z_xzLah3-Tk3rsPsl3HVbQ/s1600-h/jockey.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5333233351385697970" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 154px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAfJ7bTPQlPVuNQF3_gHuanexdqdkTCqopowz5o-qjWLbYbpm3WuqG2QMH7GChXbaeKOLKtngo_1tlWJKNudXc1DH0oHtIA2H4rjX01i7d0nvzLQfarSG6-z_xzLah3-Tk3rsPsl3HVbQ/s200/jockey.gif" border="0" /></a>ard me, but I saw no one. Then I felt a kick on my shin. I looked down and there was Michael! ‘Oh’ I stammered. ‘Michael, you must he a jockey’ (it was the first thing that come into my head)
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<br />‘Oy am, ello dare’ he said (quick tip, if you read those words phonetically they should sound Irish for ‘I am, hello there’) I thought I’d lighten the occasion by cracking a couple of jokes ‘Well jockey Michael’ I said ‘You’ll soon be <em>trotting</em> down the aisle. Sheila getting married, I <em>canter</em> believe it!’ They didn’t get much of a reaction so I went for the big one. ‘So Michael, bet you can’t wait for your wedding night – you’ll have the ride of your life then!’
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<br />It got a mixed reaction. Sheila’s father looked down at the floor hoping no one would see his grin, Michael laughed, Sheila looked embarrassed and her mother’s mouth dropped open!
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<br />A little later I asked little Michael if he could give me any betting tips for the races the next day. I like a bet now and again. He said he was feeling lucky (I looked at him and agreed!). He told me he was putting some money on a horse called Wedded Bliss in the 3.20 at Newmarket. I said I’d do the same.
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<br />Well, I handed the bookie my £10 stake. I lost the bet. Wedded Bliss did win, but when I went to place my bet I saw that there was another horse in the same race called Chardonnay, so I bet on him instead. He fell in the final furlong.
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<br />You probably thought I’d forgotten the subject of this piece. Well I haven’t and there is a moral to my tale. If your granny ever tells you to look after your pennies so the pounds will look after themselves, don’t believe her.
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<br />And if I could turn back the clock I wouldn’t have picked up that penny, and right now I’d be £9.99 better off.
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<br />Roseyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12593480630933210147noreply@blogger.com9