Let’s be a menopausal mess said no-one ever.

It’s official.  

Am not really raving loony.  :)

Am actually Peri-pausal.  :(

Have discovered that there is legitimate reason for me wanting to throw myself under every passing bus and cement mixer lorry, eating to ridiculous amounts - until I feel that I might really actually explode, having a prolific bad attitude with fucking knobheads who wind me up (which is practically e-v-e-r-y-o-n-e I encounter) and wearing the same stinky leggings for three weeks in a row despite them having a hole in the crotch and being three dress sizes too small. 

And whilst waving goodbye to ridiculously unsanitary sanitary wear, acne breakouts at 40+, stomach-ache that feels like someone’s kicked me in the fanny, tits so sensitive that I would happily commit murder should anyone be stupid enough to even touch them and a temper to match Hannibal Lecter’s . . . . .

Somehow saying hello to hot flushes, cold sweats, sleepless nights, amnesia, apathy and mood swings to shame Dr Jekyll seems somehow a fucking sorry, shitty exchange for all those years I spent being a smelly, neurotic, spotty mess once every single month for 33 years. 

‘I suggest Prozac’ My GP said. 

‘Eh?’ I exclaimed.

‘I’m menopausal Doc.  I’m not a fucking manic depressive.’ 

He looked down at my bag and nodded at the multi-pack razors, two packs of garden twine, three boxes of reduced priced paracetamol and a miniature bottle of Blossom Hill for my friend and sighed..

‘Maybe not . . . '

'But you probably will be if you don’t start taking these tablets.’

The UK Referendum – An Insiders View.

The EU Hokey Cokey:

A political game of me versus you versus you versus me versus everyone else.

Otherwise know as bollox versus even more bollox. 

And whilst the little voice may squeak to stay or stomp to remain, 

The Eton voice will do whatever it fucking well likes.

Natures answer to Prozac!

I did venture into landscape gardening once.

It involved me wasting a stupid amount of money at Wentworth Garden Centre buying alpines, eucalyptus trees, hostas and Mediterranean herbs that were completely unsuitable for my garden and which subsequently proved it to me by getting obliterated to death by pests and shit growing conditions.

So I threw the towel in. 

I wouldn’t even entertain a house plant or a hanging basket because I knew despite all my good intentions, I’d probably kill em. 

And then one late midsummer’s evening, I visited my friend’s allotment and my interest in growing fruit, flowers and veg piqued again.  Only this time though, I wanted to do it properly. 

He’d invited me into his community allotment programme and in exchange for a few hours digging up spuds, I had found myself being rewarded with a deep plastic tray filled to the brim with different coloured chards, purple sprouted broccoli, several types of mints, thymes & oreganos, parsnips, shallots and enough potatoes to see us through until Christmas. 

He then took me to the communal polytunnel and gave me another tray laden with tiger tomatoes, bell peppers and a shitload of chillies. 

And that was it. 

I was completely hooked. 

Gardening was the lifelong partner I had been looking for.

Mother’s Day?? WTF is THAT??

When I saw the amount of love expressed on that ‘true’ illustrious media form that is Facebook, I hung my head in sorrowful self pity, I’ll be honest. 

There would be no surprise dinners with mother for me, no pictures of us sat around a roast with party hats on & no unexpected bouquet of flowers for me to bestow with a surprise ‘voila’ at her doorstep.

My memories of my mum when I was young are scarce and very far in between. 

  

Intimate talks are a miss and words of ‘I Love You’ are yet to be recalled.

I don’t have memories of happy summer holidays.

 
I have nightmares about blood, knives and ambulance sirens instead.  

My mum didn’t win the parent’s egg and spoon race or bake a big cake for the Harvest Festival; she did one better and tried to kill my step-dad in broad daylight. . . Twice.  

My childhood consisted of being very different.  

I was a child of the Dev, raised on the stale fumes and shadowed light of the Off-Sales hatch and seduced by the occasional pacifying bottle of R Whites Lemonade and a bag of KP Salted Peanuts.
 

My mam spent more time in Bridge Street than she did with me.

 
And all for the sake of a fucking man.... Who I might add, took every opportunity to remind us that I wasn’t his.

Makes no wonder that I’m single eh? 

Happy Fucking Mothers Day.

Why Salt’n’Pepa are the best sex-eds ever.

Who knows better to advise females of the pitfalls and perils of the man jungle than Salt’n’Pepa? 

A trio of strong women who took the issue of sex, owned it and all without getting naked in the process.

Now, I don’t mess about having woeful and uncomfortable ‘sex talks’ with my 12 year-old daughter.  

God knows, I’ve already mentally scarred her with my incessant and highly candid seminars on men, STD’s, Domestic Violence, Rape, The variety of videos you can get in Amsterdam, Birth Control and FGM.

So what I do now, to save everyone's blushes, is to let Spinderella spin it up one time. 

 

Tramp 

Home girls attention you must pay, so listen close to what I say,

  

Don’t take this as a simple rhyme because this type of thing happens all the time. 

  

Now, what would you do if a stranger said Hi?  Would you diss him or would you reply?

If you answer, there is a chance that you become a victim of circumstance.

Am I right fellas?  Tell the truth. . .  Or else I’m a have to show and prove,

You are what you are, I am what I am. 

  

It just so happens that most men are tramps. ;) 

Have you ever seen a dude who’s stupid and rude, whenever he’s around he dogs your mood?

  

I know a guy like that girl, he thinks he’s god’s gift to the world.

  

You know that kind, excited ALL the time with nothing BUT sex on the mind.

  

I’m no stunt, on me you can’t front, I know the real deal, I know what they want.

  

On the first date, he thought I was a dummy, he had the nerve to tell me he loved me.

  

But of course, I knew he was a liar, he undressed me with his eyeballs. 

  

Trying to change the whole subject coz everything he said pertained to sex.

  

So I dissed him, I said ‘You’re a sucker, get your dirty mind out the gutter.’

  

‘You ain’t getting paid, you ain’t knocking boots, you ain’t treating me like no prostitute.’

  

Then I walked away, he called me a teaser.

  

‘You’re on a mission kid.’ 

  

Yo, he’s a tramp.

The Perils of Moving Home for the Zillionth Time.

After what seems like a million moves, I like to keep things MINIMAL.

That means clean lines, smooth edges. No mess. Neat. 

I like to be able to hoist what items I have into a box with a nice big shiny red bow and cart them off swiftly whenever things go down in Chinatown.

I like that all my things can be squashed down into a few bags for life and my garden hose can also multitask as a Christmas garland for my Xmas tree in transportation.

I like how sensible I am in sellotaping the respective castors to the underside of the beds, drawers and everything else that was missing a screw, a wheelie bit and a few other non-descript bolts. 

I like how I remembered that drawing pins, light bulbs and plugs all take precedence over toilet rolls, charger supply and internet access. 

And I give a special high five to clean bedding, towels and dishcloths. . .  

. . . . . . When I can fucking find em!!