It's a Wonderful Life…

…isn't it…?

Where on EARTH have I been?! September 13, 2012

Have I been swanning off round the globe? Have I contracted a horrific flesh eating illness that has prevented me from accessing my computer? Were my hands chopped off by rogue pirates?

Alas, no, dear readers, the reason I haven’t been able to keep you updated on my Wonderful Life of late is that I have simply been too busy spinning too many plates. We’re organising a charity fundraiser, you see: a Ball, in fact, (well, a less starchy affair than most people might envisage when we say ball) to raise funds and awareness for Macmillan Cancer Care Support. So, many a sleepless night has been had fretting about how this event is going to pan out with lots of jolting awake at 5am worrying about floor plans and welcome drinks and I’ve been so busy persuading some lovely local businesses to support us that I simply haven’t had time to blog. But we’re just 16 days til D-Day now so I figured I had better let you lovely lot in on it in case you wanted to come along: I’ll be doing a speech and everything (anyone who knows me well knows this is likely to be comedy highlight of the year considering my track record with public speaking)! What will this ball of ours look like I hear you ask, well:

Sessions House (our amazing, donated, venue) is a beautiful grand building with a red carpet entrance up a grand staircase. With a professional photographer (the very talented Ben Anker) taking photos in the sumptuous “members lounge” and vintage teas, coffees and cupcakes in the public gallery (very kindly being provided by the gorgeous Benny&Boo) we’d understand if you thought you wanted to stay there all night.

But there’s more: the mobile bar (provided by the lovely team at Mobile Bar Hire) will be on hand to mix you up a delicious special Macmillan cocktail, there is are delectable goodies to consume at the buffet (kindly donated by Maggies Cafe), our confirmed live music act (The beautiful songstress Andrea Magee) will blow you away with her voice and the prizes you could win in the raffle are not to be missed. We have been overwhelmed with the generosity of so people who have made this raffle and silent auction a must-take-part. Some of the amazing donations we have received include:

A Pandora bracelet from the new collection worth £130

A week’s stay at a luxury apartment in Cyprus

A stay at a luxury Bed and Breakfast

Plus…

Two tickets to a Chelsea Champions League Match courtesy of Heineken UK!!!!

We do still have tickets available for just £15 per person so if you would like to attend this event or wish to hear more about our fundraising efforts please do get in touch with Lea or Karen at the Boots store in Fremlin Walk, Maidstone. Alternatively you can book your tickets online via:  http://www.bootscharityball.bigcartel.com/

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The Dog that Doesn’t Speak English July 8, 2012

I may have mentioned, once or twice, that my parents have a penchant for rescuing waifs and strays. This week I have received a constant stream of hysterical text messages from my mother. You see, she decided, this time, to rescue a dog from a group of ex pats out in Spain who have been lovingly rescuing and nurturing some very sad cases of animal cruelty and neglect. This dog hadn’t been neutered and, despite only being a baby herself, had gotten caught out and ended up with a litter of mouths to feed. My Mum took pity on this little being and decided she should come and live with us.

Bonita – means “pretty little one” in Spanish

 

Text message received after Bonita’s first night in her new home:

She’s following me everywhere like a lamb. Poppy [my dog] hates her. She has chased the cats out of the house and won’t let them back in the garden. She won’t listen when I tell her to stop

Text message returned:

She doesn’t speak English, what do you expect?

Text message to Mum the next day:

How are you today, much sleep? Still hysterical and a silly English woman getting between a dog and her toys?

Reply:

No. Yes. She’s been on the roof.

My response:

HAHAHAHAHA. You mean the house roof don’t you? How did she get there?

Reply:

Yes. Landing window was open.

Text message back:

Senorita Bonita thinks she can fly. Nuhnuhnuhnunnuh BAT DOG!

That evening, to calm my Mum’s hysterics about having this loony puppy that doesn’t speak English climbing on the roof, we went out for a walk. Surprisingly, the expected arch enemy, Poppy, actually rather likes bat dog now and they walk along side by side like the best of friends.

However, our nice, peaceful walk was interrupted when they both tried to give chase to a pair of wild bunnies lolloping merrily across the golf course. And then.

SQUIRREL

SQUIRREL.SQUIRREL.SQUIRREL.

Turns out our little Spanish one is quite fond of a squirrel. Sees them everywhere in fact. If you have ever seen the film UP you will understand what I mean when I say that she is every inch Dug the Dog.

 

I have also been obliged to point out that it’s very much a “dogs and their owners” thing as she displays “squirrel” tendencies on occasion: breaking off midway through a conversation and interjecting with an entirely unrelated topic. Anyone who has read my post “My Boyfriend Has Renamed Me Jim” will understand exactly what I’m talking about here.

SQUIRREL

 

There, undoubtedly, will be more to follow on the adventures of the dog that doesn’t speak English so stay tuned, lovely readers J

 

Sunday Morning Chuckle Vision May 6, 2012

As I may have mentioned before my boyfriend has a penchant for staring at another man’s lycra clad behind. Last weekend, like many other weekends was rudely interrupted by the pair of them spending Sunday at a cycling event. Do hold your “where’s the harm in that? What an unreasonable girlfriend” until I’ve explained my issue with this. My main concern is not that I don’t get to see him or that I’m concerned by the love of a man’s lycra clad bottom: no I’m more concerned with the fact that this morning I was roused from a rather lovely Saturday night – don’t have to be up in the morinignsnoze. At six. A.m. Yes that’s correct: SIX A.M on a SUNDAY. For those of you that know me well you will understand what this means. I am a snarly, fire breathing dragon when awoken from my beauty sleep. His cycling buddy made the error of saying something about my looking less than impressed to be awake. I believe my mumbled “good morning” (social niceties, pah!) quite possibly came out more like the guttural snarl one would expect from a very.Hacked. Off. animal.

I didn’t run off to my own bed for further slumber though dear readers because what I saw next had to be observed until the bitter end. Two lycra clad men (I think they think they are ninjas/power rangers) both scratching their heads and detaching various parts of bike turning them every which direction and both trying to be the most expert “NO, I’ve done this before you know, I know what I’m doing”. Nothing like a bit of a Chuckle Brothers re-enactment to make loss of sleep bearable: “to me…to you” between the boot and the back seat, I was desperately hoping one would let go and fall flat on their lycra clad behind.  Eventually they were off after a good deal of pushing and shoving.

So now, would you like to play guess the number of puncture readers?

 

Somebody Do Something Funny April 11, 2012

One of the hazards of writing a purely comedy inspired blog is that sometimes the funny all dries up. I realise, given the content of my previous posts and my ability to attract slapstick like a moth to a flame, that seems impossible but I really am currently sitting here wailing “somebody do something funny!” How is it that I haven’t done anything absurdly stupid in a while? Have I learnt caution? Doubtful. Something is wrong in the universe Watson and I’m determined to sniff out the “fishy” by Jove! Perhaps what I should do whilst I await my next calamity is go out and make funny happen to myself or others. Which of the following would generate the most comedy value:

1)      Whilst driving my Dad to a Dr’s appointment I do my best rally car driver impression: driving at high velocity round precarious bends yelling “Yee HAW” whilst Dad’s knuckles turn white with the vice like grip of the dash board. Dad does his best impression of “The Scream” – he’s hoarse from, well, all the screaming – then faints in pure terror.

2)      I decide to take my dear little bumper car through the car wash: sounds innocuous enough but, you forget, dear readers I am due a little mishap. Things that could go wrong/comedy gold on offer at the car wash (and the reason I have always been too scared to go through one) are as follows –

  1. My recently “Auto Glass-ed” window pops again causing me to weep and wail like a banshee and make me incapable of  moving my car: the nice boys in the petrol garage have to come and move it for me muttering “I thought women liked fairy sounds” and proclaiming that this would never happen to a male driver
  2. My roof is torn away from the body of the car exposing my head to the big washer thingies. My hair gets tangled up in said washy thingies and is torn from my head. Or: my head won’t give up my hair and my head is pulled from my body. The end.
  3. The car wash fills with limitless water and then breaks down. I have to live in said car wash for all eternity. I evolve to an amphibious life: I now have webbed feet and scales.

3)      I go for a smaller, noisier target: I throw large sticks so accurately that they get wedged in the spokes of the bikes that small children are riding up and down the street on. They are pretending to be motorbikes. Broom, Broom indeed children.

4)      I get arrested for what the police term “manslaughter” when one of the kiddies is killed. I then:

  1. Plead diminished responsibility – “my blog followers made me do it, your honour”– they believe that I am psychologically disturbed and lead me to my padded cell in a straight jacket
  2. Am sentenced to a life living in a car wash (see point 2. A)
  3. Am sent to prison where I acquire a questionable room mate…
  4. Am found not guilty: clearly children pretending to be a motorcycle is a fraudulent act therefore I was simply doing my civic duty. I will then get a magazine deal to sell my story “I just did what anyone would have done” and rise to stardom overnight

Vote now!

 

Bus Rage Part 2: A Case Study April 8, 2012

Further to my post entitled “Bus Rage Part1: A Profile of the Syndrome” I shall now continue with the second installment: putting the profile into perspective by means of a case study. Case study subject was, invariably, lucky. old. me.

Two nights ago I left work at 5.40 pm knowing I was likely to have already missed the closest bus to my actual finish time so I wasn’t in any great hurry – until I turned the corner of the street and saw my bus coming down the high street – running really isn’t my thing (those of you that haven’t read “My Boyfriend Thinks I’m Fat” please do so now) and yet the thought of being stood waiting for the next bus for an indefinite length of time forced me to commence an attempt at a run. I watched the bus stop as I ran (slow mo) down the high street towards it and I then watched as it closed its doors and started to drive off. But no, I’d already run this far I was NOT going to miss it, and then, hurrah; the traffic lights at the end of the road turned red as the bus pulled up to them so I continued my panting – flailing run (I definitely was not a gazelle in a past life) right up to where the bus had stopped at the traffic lights and knocked on the bus door (no need: the driver had clearly already seen me)…unfortunately this was not the end of my plight as, when he looked at me the bus driver merely shook his head and refused to let me on his bus.

So there I stood; gasping for breath in the freezing night air fit to collapse from the running, and there he sat in his nice warm bus for several minutes while he waited for the traffic lights to change. As I walked back up the street to the bus stop I must have seemed like I had developed Tourettes Syndrome; cursing and swearing to myself as I was. I then had the pleasure of waiting over twenty minutes in the cold for the next bus, at risk of losing a hand because I left my gloves in my locker at work. Excellent.

The following night I was determined not to get caught out again and so left work five minutes earlier than on the previous night: no need for running that way I’d be in perfect time for their perfectly made up time table. And yet once more as I turned the corner I found myself lurching and flailing towards the bus stop. Thankfully there were a lot of passengers getting on at that stop that evening so he only just got the doors closed as I got there. He reopened the doors for me and took my ticket then looked at me and said “that was lucky”. This was the same bus driver that had refused me getting onto the bus the previous night. And I was still M.A.D. really mad. My response verged on the hysterical and there were definitely symptoms of bus rage apparent “LUCKY?! LUCKY?!” definitely tending towards the hysterical, does this man have a death wish, I mean, REALLY! Lucky indeed, privileged in fact to have obtained the service for which I pay considerable sums of money each week. My response? “Oh yes, very lucky…Not like last night though” accompanied by a not subtle at all “death stare” which earned me the explanation of: “Well I could have lost my job for letting you on” I believe I snatched my ticket and snarled at him while stomping my feet as the red mist came down. Lost your job? Listen, losing your job is the least of your worries given the slow a painful death I had planned for you, I can assure you!

Bus rage is not simply limited to buses though, dear readers, it is also transferrable to every other method of transport but most especially the dreaded Public Transport.

 

She Drove the Starship Voyager into a Dustbin…. March 25, 2012

One of the many hazards of your boyfriend being one of three brothers (as I am sure many of you will relate to) is having to a. do boy talk b. take a considerable amount of stick when you do anything remotely silly. This is incident combined me doing something absolutely absurd, boy talk and taking a considerable amount of stick.

Somehow last night myself and one of the boyfriend’s brothers got onto the highly intelligent topic of “Which would you say was better: Star Wars or Star Trek?” believe it or not I actually did take a few minutes before I gave my answer which I was told was fairly controversial (ooookkkaaayyy) I was then asked which Captain of the space ship in Star Trek I had though was the best again I gave a fairly educated answer (it’s no longer such a well kept secret that I am, secretly, a bit of a geek at heart).

My boyfriend then joined in the conversation by proclaiming Captain Janeway to have been his favourite (the first female captain of the space ship). I was already suspicious as to his choice when this led into reasoning as to why it had taken so long to get a female captain: women drivers. Ah, now I saw where this was going, let me guess she drove the ship into a dustbin in outer space? Some jabber ensued about women being careless drivers and having no sense of direction etcetera: “in the first episode she gets lost, like, hundreds of light years away”. Yes, hilarious, I am sure you will agree dear readers.

I have spent two days taking stick for the fact that, a couple of nights ago; I smashed my own car window. On my own driveway. By driving into our dustbin. As my Father very kindly pointed out to me “that bin has been in the same place for the past four years and no one else has ever bashed it” a fact I am very much aware of, thank you. I didn’t actually think I had broken it at first and I didn’t actually drive into it especially hard but I caught the corner of the bin lid on my rear window, heard a pop, tried to get off of the bin, got stuck and then heard the tinkling. Excellent. No primal screaming or beating of fists or head on steering wheel took place at this stage…Well not much at least.

I described this scenario and the twinkling of little bits of broken glass to my boyfriend when he came round to point and laugh at what I had done. To my own car. He kindly pointed out that I could envisage the tinkling as being a bit like “a fairy sound” (knowing I like fairies and was very distressed about being stupid enough to smash my own car window. On my own driveway. On a dustbin). Oh yes, the sound of tinkling broken bits of my rear window is exactly akin to fairy dust, darling. I was not snarling and did not have steam coming out of my ears at this point.

How many times do you think, readers, I will be subjected to conversations coming back to “dustbin” over the oncoming weeks/months/years?

 

Driving Round The Bend March 14, 2012

Filed under: Being unfit,Driving,Imagining I Can Drive — leatierney @ 9:16 am
Tags: , ,

I must confess that my driving skills leave somewhat to the imagination: you imagine what it must be like for me to be able to control a car that is. I’ve been asked a few times how I managed to get a driving licence actually and the answer: I wouldn’t stop showing up for tests so they just caved eventually under the pressure of my menacing stare.

It did, in fact, take me until my third test before I actually managed to pass and as the second test went considerably worse than the third I wasn’t exactly hopeful. My fail on the second test was in the manoeuvres section: reversing round a corner. I still have a distinct problem with turning my head and NOT turning the steering wheel at the same time. So my fail was reversing round the corner and mounting the curb. Once…Twice… THREE TIMES! Yes that’s right, I mounted the same curb three times even after pulling forward each time and straightening up, I just ended up right back where I started. On the third test I think they just gave up and realised that was the best I was ever going to give and there I had it: my licence to kill.

Actually if I’m honest I’ve not killed anything yet. That’s not to say I haven’t hit a considerable amount of inanimate objects and squashed lots of plants though. And poor Kitty (yes I named my dear little bumper car) does have quite the collection of scratches and bumps but I would like to reiterate (for the BF’s benefit really) that I have not caused any real (significant or life threatening) damage.

The biggest bump I’ve given Kitty is right on her behind and she received it shortly after I managed to harass the examiners into giving me a licence (swearing never to darken their door again). One morning I drove into work to find that one of my colleagues had managed to get herself into work on the train from London having had a fall that morning and could barely walk, so, very altruistically, I offered to drive her down to minor injuries to have it looked at. I think she may later have considered herself safer with a busted foot than in my car but nevertheless. So there I am, windows down merrily singing along to my stereo in the sunshine and, right there, in front of me is the perfect space. Except, well, really I kind of need to do a reverse park and I haven’t done one of those since my last (third) test and as I mentioned before reverse isn’t one of my strongest points. But I tackle it anyway, with gusto, and find I actually can get myself into a space backwards. Dead Chuffed. BANG! Oh, erm, oops. Bollard. Didn’t see that in my mirrors. The spectators walking past did though and my passenger forgot all about her dodgy foot (until I accidentally stamped on it) while she was laughing at my parking. Ah joy, I love driving.