tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-42857581440073023652024-03-14T00:45:49.180+00:00swearingmotherSwearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.comBlogger101125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-34758451377626978582011-12-16T16:49:00.002+00:002011-12-16T17:02:59.242+00:00Call Me Non-Swearing Grandmother Now!If anyone remembers me, just wanted to share the fact that I am now a Granny! Can't begin to tell you what that feels like, the responsibility of not swearing, learning to make jam, growing the colour out of my hair and smelling of lavender - it's not an easy adjustment I can tell you. My only concession to grannyhood is that I do seem to have developed a sore knee, but that could be because of my stubborn refusal to stop wearing what my husband calls "bad woman" shoes, so it's probably my own fault and I ought to know better at my age. <br /><br />Actually, apart from the fact that I'm in a permanent "aaaah, isn't he gorgeous" state of mind, physically there's no discernable difference - I guess I was expecting to look and feel different, but apart from all my old maternal feelings coming flooding back with a vengence, being totally besotted by this tiny scrap of humanity and the granny hormones kicking in like you wouldn't believe, Swearing Mother is pretty much the same as always. Just trying not to swear so much, but bloody hell it's hard.<br /><br />Anyway, just thought I'd drop by, out of the blue as it were, to say a Very Merry Christmas to anyone and everyone who happens to still be in touch with this blog. Can't promise that I'll start it up again, but then again who knows?<br /><br />Have a good Christmas!Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-84753899335573537012010-02-14T03:23:00.004+00:002010-02-14T04:39:00.557+00:00Here We Go Again......Well hello, long time no post. No particular reason for the deafening silence from <em></em>moi<em></em>, I just ran out of steam, lost my writing mojo down the back of the sofa or somewhere, not really sure why the creative juices ran dry, but dry they did indeed run. If dry juices can run, obviously.<br /><br />The thing is, apart from the general madness of this world we all share, nothing much happened to relight my fire and force me to tongue-lash the guilty, which is uncharacteristically benign of me as I can usually find a foul mouthful for anyone who gets up my nose. Not literally of course, but you know what I mean. I can usually launch a well aimed gobbet of vitriol upon any figure of authority that I deem to have let us down or done us wrong and my blog had become a series of rants, and when I stopped ranting I found I didn't have very much else to say.<br /><br />I was very nearly tempted out of hiding by the ridiculous story of those police officers getting a serious bollocking for sliding down snowy hillsides on their police issue equipment - my working title for that little gem would have been "'Ello, 'Ello, 'Ello - What's All This Then?" or maybe "What a Riot (Shield)!", or even "All Downhill From Here!" but frankly, in the event, I just let it pass and hoped they'd get away with it.<br /><br />I wanted to have another go about our greedy politicians, still squealing like stuck pigs because the lid of the expenses trough seems to have been slammed down on their thieving snouts. And then I thought, "what's the point, the rules will change, they'll get their trotters rapped and find another more devious way to rip us off", so I didn't bother, too weary to care.<br /><br />So I went away to think about what I've done, and what I'll do in the future if there is one for this blog. I remembered a time when it used to be quite funny, and not just me having a poke at parts of "the establishment" that annoyed me. I looked back on my old posts and made myself laugh, (sorry if that sounds a bit arrogant, comedian laughing at his own jokes kind of stuff), and realised that I had become CRABBY, so I decided to stop until my sense of humour returned.<br /><br />Funny things just seemed to stop happening to me. Quite a few miserable things did and I didn't want to do a Gordon and cry in public, I'm not out to catch votes (was that harsh?), but now I feel it's about time the miserable tide started to turn.....<br /><br />So this is what I want you to do. Tell me some good heart warming stuff, silly stuff, can-you-believe-what-happened-to-me kind of stuff. Nothing nasty, heavy, sad or doomy.<br /><br />Let there be light! Get Swearing Mother swearing again!<br /><br />Or, better still, laughing.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-34578025850645117552010-02-02T22:45:00.000+00:002010-02-02T22:46:23.001+00:00WIFE IN THE NORTH IS BACK!So get over there and say hi!Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-89512322515156629872009-09-10T16:14:00.013+01:002009-09-18T09:52:08.825+01:00Lying Down On The Job?Oh dearie, dearie me. And tut, tut, tut. Some doctors and nurses from the Accident and Emergency Department at a Swindon hospital are in serious trouble, it seems. The Hospital Management are on their case, big-time. They are facing a Disciplinary Hearing, no less. They've been very bad. Very bad indeed. In fact, it's a scandal.<br /><br />So what on earth are they guilty of? What have they done? Did they turn up for work drunk, were they so hungover that they fell asleep whilst suturing someone's scalp wound, did they sneak out for a sly fag and set fire to the Plaster Room. Or worse? <br /><br />Well, I'll tell you. They played a game and had some fun.<br /><br />Let me explain.<br /><br />For those of you not in the know or as in-touch as moi, let me fill you in on the latest craze to sweep the nation. Apparently, and you'll know this if you're as down with the kids as I am (joke), or if you read The Times today, there's a thing called The Lying Down Game which consists of lying flat, face down, hands at your side, palms pointed inwards, toes to the floor, in the most humorous, unusual and public place you can manage. You strike your pose and then get yourself photographed and post it on the internet. It's described as "parkour (free-running*) for those who can't be arsed." It all sounds a bit random but I have to say that this new sport really appeals to me. I may well take it up.<br /><br />To people with a sense of humour like mine, it's bloody funny seeing pictures of people balanced on top of post-boxes, shelves, mountains, horses, fences and shop counters and as far as I can see, no innocent human being has been injured by this activity as yet. It seems a harmless pastime, as opposed to, for instance, the ridculously named "happy" slapping, or child pornography, or dog-fighting, but I guess it won't be long before some bloody idiot proves me spectacularly wrong by impaling themselves trying to balance on a spike, having not been warned that it's sharp. Ah well. That's what you get for ignoring Health and Safety regulations. If you ignore Infection Control regs presumably you can expect your wound to go septic too.<br /><br />So, picture the scene. On a quiet night shift in A and E, several young doctors and nurses came up with the idea that it would be a bit of a laugh to play the Lying Down Game and take photographs of each other in unusual and amusing places around the Department and post them on Facebook. Unfortunately for them it seems that although they must have had a lot of fun posing for these photos, lying face down on resuscitation trolleys (unoccupied ones, presumably, or that <strong>would</strong> have been naughty), ward floors and even the hospital heli-pad, some snitch informed Der Management which has taken a dim view of these japes, sighting "infection control" and "health and safety" issues as the reason for the disciplinary action, despite the fact that no patients were involved and patient care was not compromised at all. They are taking this very seriously and heads may roll, apparently.<br /><br />Bloody hell. Good job they weren't in charge of us back in the 60's when I worked at a large teaching hospital, or the lot of us would have been sent to Alcatraz. Our nightly parties would often culminate in someone's pants waving from the flagpole, or one of the doctors getting plastered, literally, from heel to groin and then left in a wheelchair to sober up in Out Patients. I seem to remember a young SHO getting his genitals painted bright blue with medical dye the night before his wedding (if you're reading this now, Professor, it wasn't me), and tied with his stethoscope to a radiator (that wasn't me either, honestly), a Health and Safety nightmare without a doubt. A cantankerous senior surgeon found a stuffed moose's head on his examination couch, covered by a sheet but left there by some minion he'd been particularly vile to (OK, that was me), an obvious Infection Control issue if ever there was one. Looking back now, I don't know how we got away with any of it, but no one got hurt and the job got always got done, and with good humour. <br /><br />Ah, happy days.<br /> <br />So, although I wouldn't like to think that this sort of thing goes on with regularity, and with the proviso that the patients would never suffer from it, I expect a little light-hearted fun on the night shift in the A and E Department made a welcome change from being yelled at, spat at, punched, vomited on, bitten and stabbed, and I feel sorry that those medics have got themselves into such trouble for it. It's a shame they can't just have a stiff bollocking from Matron as we used to if she ever caught us out, rather than have this on their employment record for ever.<br /><br />Anyway, must dash, am taking hubby and the digital camera down to Waitrose so that we can play The Lying Down Game and he can take a pic of me flat out in the fruit and veg aisle, amongst the pak-choi I think. Or maybe the Chanterelle mushrooms?<br /><br />Watch out for me on Facebook? <br /><br /><br /><br /><br />*If you don't know what Parkour or free-running is, this must have been the most boring post you've ever read. Would you mind looking it up on Wikipedia? Thanks so much.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-12480132557100554512009-08-14T18:13:00.008+01:002009-08-15T01:05:35.837+01:00NHS In Free For All?Poor old NHS, a creaking giant born of good intentions, the saviour of many, the tormentor of some. Say what you will, a service where everyone payed in to provide health care for all seemed to be a good idea at the time. Or was it? According to critics both here and in America, the National Health Service of Great Britain is a disgrace. They say we are subjected to governmental control and tyranny in order to access basic health care for which, they say, we wait and wait for no good reason. And what's more we have awful teeth. Nice. How kind of them to mention it.<br /><br />I've worked in the NHS all my adult life, and quite frankly despite all the negative press I'm proud of what can be achieved, although I'm the first to agree it isn't all good news. That much is obvious. Since 1969 I've seen many changes, many different incentives and initiatives relentlessly pursued only to be abdandoned and tried again years later with the same disappointing results. I've witnessed the rise and rise of superbugs, the lowering of cleaning standards, the out-sourcing of basic services which are often substandard, the ridiculous obsession with producing statistics rather than genuine improvements in patient care. Whole hospital departments exist merely to collect raw and sometimes inaccurate data, mould it into the required good news format to be used in the never ending game of ping-pong politics in which the NHS has become the continually battered ball. Point scoring results can be manipulated to order, depending on who's asking the question and what they want the answer to convey. Legions of career focused hospital managers now spend their time in meetings about finances, targets and cuts whereas at one time they used to know more about patients' needs, the local population, the value of their staff. Sadly, that's all in the past.<br /><br />Yes, there's plenty to be negative about if we want to look and look and look for it, but whilst we're having such a close look I'd urge anyone who's at all interested in fair play and a balanced argument to take care not to ignore the tremendous good that is also achieved.<br /><br />In the years I've worked in the health service, I've seen kids who would never have previously survived into adulthood given transplant surgery which has provided them and their families with a future. There are chronically ill people in the UK who are being kept alive by combinations of drugs/therapy/care, all free at point of delivery. What would happen to them if it wasn't for the NHS? Babies smaller than bags of sugar (much smaller, actually) are now routinely cared for in amazingly expensive high-tech units until they're big enough to go home, when the nursing staff joyfully hand the parents a baby, not a bill. Every day we can freely go to our GP's surgery, or take part in some sort of health screening, or be seen by a consultant without taking a credit card with us (although change for the carpark would be handy), but these treatments come at a cost and these costs come from our contributions, and we who contribute do so on behalf of everyone. I think we can be proud of that. <br /><br />I'll not try to pretend that there isn't massive room for improvement in the NHS and admit that there are very, very many cash-strapped services which are not up to a good enough standard, and yes, our demands for health services outstrip the available supply because there simply isn't enough to do everything everyone wants, so yes, we sometimes have to wait. And sadly, yes, some people have been very badly let down by the NHS for many different reasons. But please don't forget the millions and millions of people who owe their health and wellbeing to it, who have been treated successfully and well and are living proof that when the National Health Service is allowed to work, it works. It may be a long way from perfect, but at least you can rest assured that the first question a patient is asked before treatment in a British A and E Department is never going to be "who will pay?"<br /><br />For me, the sight of people in the US with no health insurance queueing up before dawn in order to see a doctor, certainly vindicates our NHS warts and all.<br /><br />And yes, in this country you can get those treated for free too.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com23tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-20909950160423027192009-06-21T22:22:00.007+01:002009-07-01T00:43:03.050+01:00New Balls PleaseWell, here we are in the middle of the year - the sun's been shining, Wimbledon's well under way and at last we've got a tennis player in with a chance of winning. We've had several BBQs, already eaten more than enough strawberries and drunk far, far too many jugs of Pimms to be sensible when in charge of a barbecue. At work there's a permanent aroma of fake-tan in the office and we've broken out the fans. Anyone would think we're having a summer at last. <br /><br />All in the garden should be lovely.<br /><br />Well, it would be but we haven't booked any holidays yet which probably accounts for the gently gnawing sense of anxiety that I'm feeling right now. It's the same every year. If you've been a reader since this blog began you'll know that I have trouble with holidays because I am a total wuss. Part of me wants to go everywhere/do everything/see the world, and another part of me (the fairly large dithery part, unfortunately) is scared shitless by taking the risk of going into the unknown, even if it's only a few hours Easyjet away. I spend ages on the internet searching for the perfect location for us (is there such a place I ask myself, does it really exist?), get to the point of actually booking it and then, and then.........nothing. I just go off the idea because I read something dodgy about pick-pockets in the area we're thinking of going to, or someone tells me a horror story about the hotel we're booking, or my husband makes a negative comment and/or fails to look, a) interested, b) keen, or c) awake. I slink off defeated, read more travel magazines and worry that we're missing out on the big adventure. Which of course we are.<br /><br />Annoying isn't it?<br /><br />What's to be done with me? Last year we threw caution to the wind, went into the travel agent and willingly, although unknowingly, chucked away enough money to pay an MP's food-bill on the holiday from hell. I thought we were being spontaneous, exciting and adventurous by booking at the last minute, packing and leaving the UK all within three days, when it actually turned out that we were just gullible idiots reeled in to fill a travel agent's quota and ended up somewhere which was totally the opposite of what we really wanted. <br /><br />I asked you all for help in finding a good holiday venue, somewhere not too touristy with nice restaurants, lovely coastline, friendly people, you gave me your suggestions and what did I do? I ignored them all and took a flyer, thinking I was being really brave. Mistake. Big mistake. <br /><br />This time I'll listen.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-45310663122720593012009-06-05T00:24:00.005+01:002009-06-05T10:30:28.827+01:00Britain's Got TalonsWell, it's been a gripping week. Our government's in melt-down, we've got so cross with some of our less than honourable politicians that several of them have been forced out of office, the Prime Minister could possibly be dusting off his suitcases and ordering the removal van for some time next week, I guess, and the vultures are circling over the Houses of Parliament, barely waiting for the juiciest carcasses to draw their last gasp expenses cheque before tearing them to shreds and speculating upon the new pecking order. <br /><br />Crikey.<br /><br />Who'd have thought that "the court of public opinion" would have produced so many hanging judges? Is this what happens when we, the public, dig our claws in? Has our anger really made this happen? It seems that everywhere you go - the hairdressers, supermarket, restaurant or pub, the talk is about one thing and one thing only - the expenses scandal. I don't think I've seen people so stirred up about anything as much as this, ever. And it shows no signs of abating any time soon. <br /><br />I am quite stunned by it all, to be honest. <br /><br />So what on earth's going to happen next? What do YOU want to happen next? For the first time in ages, I feel as if we have a say in what happens next, so what shall we ask for?Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-86164167021032628812009-05-22T08:33:00.011+01:002009-05-22T18:28:42.593+01:00A Few Good Men"It is necessary only for the good man to do nothing for evil to triumph" <em>- Edmund Burke, 1729 - 97.</em><br /><br />Whatever did we talk about before the expenses scandal of MPs' moats and duck-ponds, bath-plugs and plasma TV's? Each day brings fresh revelations which shock and infuriate us, closely followed by whingeing, whining excuses from those we trusted to lead us and not to rob us blind.<br /><br />"I was only working within the rules, I've done nothing wrong" has so far been the number one get-out line trotted out by thick-skinned on-the-take MPs outed by the Press, a phrase which raises my blood pressure a notch every time I hear it. How can they not realise the ridiculousness of such an excuse when they themselves have written the rules, have been responsible for the oh-so-generous interpretation of them and have apparently happily worked within those "guidelines" until public outrage has shone the spotlight of shame upon them? <br /><br />And now we have MPs coming forward who apparently always thought that their expense account procedures were a bit dodgy, but who nevertheless continued to use these procedures whilst ever so quietly raising their doubts about them. Their protests apparently fell on deaf ears (probably such a high-pitched squeaking that only dogs could hear it) but instead of shouting louder and louder until they made their point and forced reform, they waited it out for someone else to blow the whistle hard enough for it to be heard, in this case a national newspaper. Now these same MPs are trying to use the fact that their back-dated protests were rejected as a defence for continuing to work within a rotten system, as if retrospectively we will accept that they never really wanted to be part of the classroom naughty gang after all, and let them off detention. <br /><br />But they were part of it simply because of their tacit acceptance of the status quo, however reluctantly, and as such are almost as responsible for this unholy mess as those who dived snout-first into the trough with that infuriating sense of entitlement which has enraged so many of us over the past few weeks. <br /><br />All of this has got me thinking about my own character. Would I be strong enough to keep my integrity when all around were losing theirs? Would you? In reality, who knows until tested how any of us would react. I suppose we all like to think that there are some things "up with which we will not put", but where do we draw the line? Would you or I continue to be part of a system which we know is intrinsically wrong because we fear for our personal future, or would our consciences get the better of us and force us to stand up and be counted? Would we have the determination to try very hard to change things, refusing to take no for an answer and making ourselves extremely unpopular in the process? Could you be a whistle-blower and face the consequences?<br /><br />Being the trouble-maker that I am, I think I have my answer, but then again I don't have powerful colleagues with ducks desperate for a little island to sit on, manor house moats that need cleaning or several mortgage interest paid houses to "flip", all on the taxpayer, so that makes my choice a whole lot easier.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-4203188462098430982009-05-04T15:38:00.006+01:002009-05-04T19:55:43.413+01:00A Quiet Sort Of A Do....You know you've had a really good 60th birthday party if, when clearing up the morning after, the three most random items left by guests departing at daft o'clock the night before, are:<br /><br />a) A Pyrex bowl.<br />b) A single jewelled flip-flop.<br />c) A Screw-Fix catalogue.<br /><br />I'm not really sure which of those things I find the most puzzling. <br /><br />Maybe someone felt they had to bring their own Pyrex bowl just in case our party food turned out to be a bit more stomach-churning than usual, or they intended to get raucously drunk and weren't sure if they should partake of vast amounts of alcohol whilst on medication. That sort of fits in with the age group.<br /><br />Re the single flip-flop - I tried to remember if we'd entertained a female unidexter*, or someone with their leg in plaster, or if any of our friends had arrived and left in an unusual hopping style, but I can't recall anyone who fits the bill.<br /><br />Maybe the thing that mystifies me the most is the Screw-Fix catalogue. WTF was that all about?<br /><br />Creative answers only please:<br /><br />NB: Travelling and Knifepainter - try and keep it clean dear boys.<br /><br /><br />* http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dFoagC5yGY0Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-26770821466719880132009-04-29T17:47:00.011+01:002009-05-01T13:31:17.516+01:00Sixty's Chic?Hey, guess what? I am officially an O.A.P. as from last Sunday.<br /><br />Weird, I know. And to be honest, it's a little bit scary. I'm wondering just what happened to the time, to the long-legged mini-skirted girl, striding out into life in white PVC boots and Mary Quant mini-skirt, dancing the night away to the Sweet Soul Music at Le Metro,The Rum Runner and Opposite Lock; smoking, drinking, laughing, loving my days and nights away. Well, she met her match, married him, made a Habitat home and settled down. Became a mother, (definitely not a swearing one), wiped bottoms and noses, pushed prams, liquidised carrots, washed nappies and floors. Bathed sore knees, kissed them better, made cakes and excuses for lost homework. Did the school run, forgot to wash gym kits, searched for nits, dealt with worms, had a perm. Learned to worry, worry, worry. Put on weight, wore big earrings and shoulder pads. Watched Dallas, bought some lip-gloss, thought JR was a bastard but kind of fancied him. Became a nag, a working Mum, an always knackered cleaning bore, a mother of arsey teenagers, a picker-up of rancid socks, a drug tsar, a lecturer on STD's and unwanted pregnancies, one half of the bank of Mum and Dad, a taxi-driver, a tennis partner, made Henry Kissinger and his peace-keeping force look like a bunch of amateurs. Wiped away tears, tried to allay fears. Took worry to higher level, became an ever vigilant witch, a total wreck, couldn't sleep until that key went in the door at 4 a.m. Became a Uni Mum of brainy son and mother of the bride, glowed with pride. Watched them pack, wanted them back, broke my heart. Learned to start again with a different life.<br /><br />Nearly forgot to remember that once, long ago, there were only the two of us, and two of us once more there would be. Had trouble with the sadness the empty nest brought with it. Had trouble with the tidy house, the quiet house, the empty house. Thought that black hole would definitely get me.<br /><br />Decided to get a grip. Started a blog. Made some more friends. Had a laugh. Learned to swear in print (fucking liberating, I can tell you). Bought a sports car, had a new hairdo, rediscovered who's the Daddy round here, decided I still really liked him, started to have a bloody good time. Learned to be a bit selfish, self-indulgent and flash, discovered high maintenance hair-do's, facials and the gym. And then, suddenly, I was sixty.<br /><br />Bloody hell. Now how am I going to deal with that, my dear friends?Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-76518936593848974292009-04-10T12:50:00.012+01:002009-04-12T10:55:09.605+01:00Quick, Let's Buy That Man A Briefcase!Well, well, well. Whatever next? In a week that has seen published lists of items claimed for by MP's more reminiscent of the conveyor belt on Bruce Forsythe's Generation Game than reasonable work-related expenses, (stone sink, patio set, barbecue, etc) there is something that most of us would have gladly provided - and I don't mean the deep fat-fryer or cuddly toy. <br /><br />For goodness' sake, why didn't anyone treat Bob Quick, Metropolitan Police Assistant Commissioner, to a brief-case? Or maybe a plastic document holder? Or even a big brown envelope? <br /><br />Whilst it's very worrying that such a senior officer in counter-terrorism would be so daft as to carry Top Secret documents in plain sight of journalists with long-range lenses, I'm not really sure if his resignation will do anyone any good or not. He obviously felt he had to go, and I suppose the least we can say about him is that having dropped such a monumental clanger, he's bitten the bullet and done the decent thing. I guess many of the MPs who are currently working their way through piles of expenses receipts with black marker pens this Easter weekend will be thankful to Mr Quick for getting their subsidised shopping lists off the front page for a few days. Having someone else held up to ridicule must come as a bit of a relief to them, and a very welcome change no doubt. <br /><br />It's hard these days to watch the news and not have the feeling that the lid is about to pop off yet another can of worms, or several cans for that matter, with more revelations that embarrass and diminish us as a nation, which I find both infuriating and rather sad. <br /><br />But anyway, enough already. See what happens when I try to get more politically aware? They all start to piss me off and then I'm forced to rant. I can't do anything about any of it so no more sniping from me. I'll just go back to reading the fashion pages of the newspapers, try to ignore the political bits and turn off the TV after Eastenders. All this intrigue is wearing me out.<br /><br />I will now definitely be resting my case.<br /><br />Unlike Mr. Quick of course, who sadly hasn't got one.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-49090243900472308322009-03-31T19:03:00.011+01:002009-04-03T00:12:47.121+01:00Would You Adam And Eve It?Sorry to go on about this dodgy expenses claim thingy, but go on I must as long as this unsavoury episode continues. Now our Home Secretary’s husband has been dragged out of the house to explain himself to the media and apologise for what he’s done - viewing films which he subsequently (and stupidly) charged to the wife’s expenses, two of which were of the, ahem, "adult entertainment" kind. <br /><br />She appeared to be absolutely furious but no more furious than we, the poor suckers who paid for them, have every right to be. What concerns me is that she seems to be far more cross with him for his taste in films and for embarrassing her rather than being truly regretful that the taxpayer was asked to foot the bill for something of such a personal nature. <br /><br />Don’t get me wrong – I don’t care if he was viewing adult films, among others. Good luck to him, if that’s his bag then let him get on with it. What he does in the privacy of his own home is entirely up to him. The bit I find more shocking is that he claimed for any of the films at all, regardless of their subject matter. To me the fact that they were paid for on expenses is the truly offensive thing here, not the content of a couple of them. <br /><br />So what's the next episode in the sorry saga of the Home Secretary, Her Expenses and the Husband Who Will Be Sleeping On The Sofa? Are we soon to be treated to more insights of how the other half live, at our expense? <br /><br />If recent events are anything to go by, my guess is that having funded the films for a cosy night in front of the TV, Joe Public will be getting the bill for the Chinese takeaway any time now. <br /><br />With tip, no doubt.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><em></em>Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-34293939060632067262009-03-23T19:37:00.019+00:002009-03-30T00:21:22.234+01:00My Other Home's on ExpensesFor those of you living without any form of media stimulus because you can't afford newspapers any more, or if your television has been repossessed along with your home, recent news regarding the clever personal accounting of some of our MPs must have come as a bit of a nasty shock. We have learned that it’s apparently a widely accepted practice amongst our elected representatives to claim expenses for whichever of their several residences yields the most dosh, and it doesn't seem to matter whether it's the constituency home of the MP, or where Mum and Dad live, or a sister's house in London as long as there's money to be made from it. By performing this devious switcheroo, some MPs are taking huge amounts of cash from the public purse to which they are not morally entitled. It appears that the lax guidelines (I won't call them "rules" as there obviously aren't any) allow claims regardless of the true validity or necessity of that claim as long as the criteria is loosely met. We are told by the newspapers that it's actually possible to charge for alternative accomodation in London when an MP's actual home is itself only eight miles away, something which must really piss off thousands of rail commuters who strap-hang every day on sweaty overcrowded trains for many more miles than that and pay a large chunk of their salary for the privilege of doing it. <br /><br />For us ordinary people who have to pay our own bills (no John Lewis list for us, unfortunately) and are trying to survive the current financial balls-up (or "down-turn" as it is quaintly known) imposed upon us by a sleep-walking government and a criminally greedy financial sector, news that some of our very own public officials are apparently shafting us via their expenses claim forms is, putting it mildly, a bit sick-making. For the thousands of people facing eviction from their homes having been lured into borrowing more money than they could ever hope to pay back should the financial climate change, as it has, learning that some of our own political masters are allegedly raking it in by means of some very nifty financial footwork is somewhat galling, to say the least. If only they could have managed our economy as efficiently as they've managed to line their own pockets, we wouldn't be in the monetary mire that we currently find ourselves splashing around in. It really pisses me off to think of our student children racking up massive debts in order to get an education which many of these public servants got for free, yet with tuition fees set to rise again those self same government officials are still receiving way more than their rightful share of public funding. It just doesn’t seem fair. How can they take this unearned money when it is so badly needed in very many more deserving areas? Hospitals, schools, pensions? Impoverished public services? Many people in this country can't even afford to see a dentist, let alone run a second home to make going to work a bit easier. It makes my blood boil. But even more seriously, my heart breaks for every young service man or woman sent to war on our behalf, ill-equipped and vulnerable and put at risk because of cost. Put into this context these expenses' fiddles become, quite frankly, obscene.<br /><br />So far, outed MP’s say they’ve done nothing wrong when what I think they actually mean is that they haven't broken any laws or fallen foul of any party policy. However, there is a difference between being regulated by law or adhering to an expected code of decent behaviour, a distinction which is obviously not understood by some. As dear old Eric Morcambe used to say "they can't touch you for it", so this type of monetary manipulation has become common practice and is therefore deemed by some creative thinkers to be OK, simply because until now it has been allowed. A blind eye has been turned, thus giving credence to the scam. Worryingly, many more MPs than we know of are probably getting away with this sort of thing on a continuous basis and are legitimately, if immorally, helping themselves to public money - grabbing seats on the UK gravy train even as it runs out of steam, dipping their bread into the fat of the land which is oozing out of Great Britain plc as we, the tax-paying public, face the most serious financial roasting of our time. <br /><br />Now the excrement has hit the rotating blades and the newspapers have got hold of the story, is anyone going to stop this dodge? Can these people be shamed? And, if not, within a self-regulating system who is going to stop them? We are told there’s going to be a full review, but I for one won’t hold my breath to see if this legalized pocket-picking is going to end any time soon. <br /><br />One thing's for certain. I'd really like to ask any of the guilty parties to stop pretending that this abuse of position is all right when it definitely is not OK. I'd like to say "C'mon chaps, do the decent thing." I'd like to feel that elected Members of Parliament know the difference between right and wrong and that the trust put in them by their electorate wasn't misplaced. <br /><br />And I'd like them to stop taking the piss. <br /><br /><br />That's it. Rant over.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-49117850746117647152009-02-11T21:57:00.005+00:002009-02-11T23:09:10.081+00:00No Business Like Snow BusinessLiking the weather are we? Enjoying the deep and crisp and even? <br /><br />I have to admit, I'm a dithering wreck in this weather. Despite the fact that I have walking boots which can take me up vertical frozen rock faces (not that I've ever asked them to, but still), my legs turn to petrified tree-trunks the minute I put one foot in front of the other on even a lightly snow-kissed pavement. A pig on stilts is more graceful. I'm not alone in my fear of going arse over tit - all my female colleagues feel the same, whatever their age and/or fitness level. We are, to a woman, scared to death of slipping in the snow. <br /><br />Walking from the car to the office (a good twenty yards at least), bundled up like people trying to avoid the excess baggage charge on Ryanair by wearing every item of clothing they possess, we clutch each other's arms and scream like banshees if there's even the tiniest possibility that our feet will go from under us. Even indoors we are trussed up as if this is the coldest place on earth, despite the fact that we work in a building kept at tropical temperatures day and night. We take it in turns to be on "Snow Watch" and by 3.00 p.m. each day, should a few flakes of snow begin to fall, we down tools saying that we've got to get home before the weather closes in, and abandon the office. We have a developed siege mentality, filling our freezers with bread just in case we can't get out tomorrow, despite the fact that most of us live within slithering distance of Sainsbury's. Being "snowed in" has become the excuse du jour for being very, very late and going home very, very early. <br /><br />With all this extra time at home, I've taken to making soups, venison sausage casseroles, even baked apples with proper home-made rice pudding - comfort food usually unheard of at my house during the working week. To increase the snuggle factor we've added another quilt to our bed and I've bought some sheepskin slippers. I am well prepared for more snow and, to be honest, I've secretly started to enjoy myself.<br /><br />As long as I don't have to go out in it of course.<br /><br />Hope everything is OK where you are.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-40930110796216921382009-01-03T17:58:00.024+00:002009-01-20T00:19:37.282+00:00Ding-Dongs Merrily On High<em>Hi, long time no write. Here's one I wrote earlier and didn't post, for whatever weird reason I can't remember now</em>.<br /><br /><br />Good Christmas? Happy New Year?<br /><br />In Casa Swearing Mother Christmas and New Year went predictably, which is both a good and a bad thing. On the positive side, we were all together, had enough (more than enough, in fact) to eat; a warm, clean and cosy home in which to enjoy the holidays and on the whole, we did. On the negative side, it's always difficult to keep the peace between people who rarely spend more than a couple of days together and, although devoted to each other as much as humanly possible, have the capacity to get up each other's noses without very much effort at all, season of goodwill or not. <br /><br />In our family, we are argumentative. We are very rarely bored or boring. Everyone has something to say and fights to say it, usually in a good humoured way but sometimes it can get a bit out of hand. We can argue about anything and everything, from leaving the bathroom light on to the state of third world economics, and back again via "who the fuck moved my keys?" I'm not sure quite why it happens or how the niggling starts but I think it's something to do with kids returning to the fold and regressing back to patterns of childhood despite the fact they are now grown up, and we as parents forgetting to back off and let them be the capable adults that they actually are. That's theory number one anyway. And then there's the other problem; we olds think we know best because we always used to, way back when our kids took any notice of us, but now our grown-up children are filled with knowledge far greater than ours about a variety of subjects I don't necessarily give a toss about, which can and does breed a certain amount of intolerance at times. Yes, I am concerned about global warming but not enough to worry about it when I'm trying to cook Christmas dinner and chopping carrots in the dark because someone switched the frigging lights off in an effort to save the planet. <br /><br />I admit to being very small town in my attitudes. When my son says he's got something serious to discuss with us, my heart leaps into my mouth and I think "oh shit, what's up with him?", when actually he's worried about the Palestinian Israeli crisis. Phew. I feel guilty at my relief - so that's all, I think, thank goodness for that. I realise my margins are set way too narrow and that I must appear infuriating and insular, but first and foremost I am relieved that he is OK. I really do care about those who suffer but my sphere of influence is small and my own family is at the epi-centre of it. The rest of the world has to get in line behind them for my total devotion and compassion, and I make no apologies for it. Yes I do care about the starving millions, global warming, the homeless, the victims of violence, the fight for democracy and so on. And so on. But there are those about whom I care more, heated discussions or no. <br /><br />So, although it would be an exaggeration to claim that the home front was a bit of a war zone this Christmas, let's just say there were times I wished someone with a harmonica would start playing "Silent Night" and instigate a kick-about conversation in the comparitive safety of the neutral no-man's-land of small talk. Or that predictable conversational landmines could be skirted around instead of being deliberately triggered with both feet (husband) just for the sport of it, or some hapless idiot (me) would refrain from unintentionally lighting the blue touchpaper. And, in fairness, maybe it would help if the junior snipers didn't have such touchy trigger fingers when it comes to other people's opinions. <br /><br />After reading a few articles in various papers and magazines about family rows at Christmas, it makes me wonder why sometimes families find it so much of a challenge to be together over the festive season, more than any other time of year. It's especially sad when so much effort has been put in to make it perfect, but maybe that is the problem - do we invest so much time, money and effort into a few short and precious days together that if it doesn't work out exactly as we'd like, trouble ensues? I wish I knew. <br /><br />Generally speaking though, we had a happy Christmas and New Year and now we've gone our separate ways once more until the next time we all get together and wind each other up again. It was good to have a houseful and, looking on the bright side, mercifully we didn't actually throttle each other.<br /><br />But it was close.<br /><br /><br />Happy New Year everyone and peace be with you (especially you, Gaza).<br /><br /><br /><em>It seems such a long time ago now, but if you can still remember Christmas and New Year, how was yours?</em><br /><br /><br />.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com16tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-14070462455929545602008-12-14T20:27:00.009+00:002008-12-15T01:02:30.521+00:00Mistletoe and WhineWell hello, nice to see you, to see you........ I really must stop watching Brucie on that Strictly Come Dancing thingy, I think it may be getting to me. Anyway, how are you? Ready for Christmas?<br /><br />Of course, the correct answer to this if you are any friend of mine, is absolutely, definitely "NO WAY". Please don't tell me you've already wrapped all your presents, iced your cake, cleaned out your freezer and filled it with home-made goodies. I just couldn't stand it. And if you are one of these hideously organised people who have made their own cards from sticky backed plastic and glitter way back in November, please speak to the hand 'cos the face ain't listening.<br /><br />No, I prefer the haphazard chaos theory of Christmas preparations - ignore it for as long as possible, throw up my hands in horror that it is in fact NEXT WEEK, tear around like a maniac buying all manner of unsuitable gifts, open the Harveys Bristol cream and fling decorations on the tree whilst steadily getting festively merry. <br /><br />Catering-wise I've decided to take the easy road this year with ready-stuffed turkey, pre-prepared veg, M and S gravy and Mamma Mia DVD for afters. Hopefully having produced this gourmet feast I'll be wearing a new pair of those furry slippers that look like Ugg boots, my feet up on the sofa, a tin of Quality Street on my lap, waiting for one of my doting family to bring me a cup of tea after they've washed up and tidied the kitchen. <br /><br />In my fantasy world all presents will have been received with enthusiasm, Christmas dinner will have passed without anyone having an argument, I will remain sober until tea-time and no one will notice we've lost half the Scrabble tiles since last year. It will all have been absolutely perfect, worth all the effort and everyone will be happy. <br /><br />In reality I have only two words to say to that. One is "fat" and the other is "chance". <br /><br />But really, what is a "perfect" Christmas? For me, it's having my family around me, my kids under my roof once more, sitting at a table with everyone I love around it. <br /><br />So this coming week when we're all struggling with bags of shopping in the pouring rain (unless you've pre-booked your Sainsbury's delivery slot, in which case you can stay at home and be smug), or standing in a queue at M and S listening to everyone around us moaning about the amount of stuff other people are buying ("it's only two days after all, I don't know what all the fuss is about"), let's hold on to what's really important to us this year. Whatever you wish for yourselves, I hope you get it. Within reason, of course.<br /><br />Happy Christmas everyone, try not to throttle each other, and enjoy.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com21tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-82282671313943240202008-11-19T23:10:00.003+00:002008-11-19T23:24:00.898+00:00Black Dog BluesSome days it's hard to be a woman. Or a man. Or a goddam dog, come to think of it. I'm having a blue period at the moment, frankly an extended jag of feeling down in the dumps, a black mood tinged with a bit of grey laced with a few great gobbets of purple. I am fed up. Don't know why, that's just the way life is.<br /><br />Counting my blessings works, but only up to a point. <br /><br />I need something fantastic to bring back the spring in my step. Something to restore the old sense of humour, to bring back my faith in humanity, to give me a bit of a warm glow. Preferably not related to alcohol and chocolate, if at all possible.<br /><br />So what've you got for me?Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-53734020120918935012008-10-08T19:09:00.011+01:002008-11-05T00:10:39.928+00:00Over A Barrel At The BankWe got our mortgage statement recently. We thought they'd made a mistake. It showed we only owed a relatively smallish amount of money, in comparison to the relatively huge-ish amount we used to owe. How time flies when you've got a mill-stone around your neck. We looked at each other and said "Blimey, shall we pay it off and be done with it? We could save ourselves a fortune in interest". This would however involve raiding the piggy bank, big-time, living on curried dust and wearing our children's cast-offs but we'd both read in the financial papers that the best way to survive the current hideous financial turmoil is to pay off as much debt as possible, spend as little as possible and avoid paying anyone any interest if at all possible. It seemed like maybe this was a Good Plan.<br /><br />"Hello, we'd like to talk about paying off our mortgage" we told the advisor at the bank. We waited for a fanfare, fireworks or a twenty-one gun salute. We'd even have settled for a round of applause. I thought they'd be thrilled to get some money back in their coffers in view of the current financial climate, but no, nothing. In fact, if anything, she looked very unimpressed. "In one go, completely, totally finished" I added, just in case she hadn't understood. She sighed. <br /><br />"Yes, you could do that" she said, "but it'll cost you about £400 in penalty fees for ending your mortgage early and £50 for us to send you your deeds." Fifty pounds to send us a few papers?? I wondered where on earth they were getting their stamps. <br /><br />"Oh, that seems a bit mean doesn't it" I attempted a bit of light-hearted humour, "the bank charging us to give them their money back to them? What about if we just let the mortgage run on, and continue to overpay, how much interest would we be charged until the end of the term?"<br /><br />There was frantic jabbing at the calculator. "About £400 give or take a few pounds. And of course £50 to send back your deeds."<br /><br />Of course.<br /><br />"So, let's get this straight. If we give you back several thousand pounds of the bank's money, they'll charge us £400 for doing it. If we don't give it back all in one go, and continue monthly payments, you'll charge us £400 in interest for doing that."<br /><br />"Yes," she said "that's correct."<br /><br />Undaunted, we tried a different approach. <br /><br />"Could we change to a different mortgage then, with a lower interest rate?"<br /><br />She nodded. "You could, but there is an arrangement fee for changing to a different mortgage product."<br /><br />We were ahead of her here. "And how much is that fee?"<br /><br />Yes, you guessed, it was £400.<br /><br />So in summary, if you pay the bank back, it costs you money. If you keep the loan going, it costs you money. If you try and overpay to finish it off a little bit early, it costs you money. And if you try to save yourself a bit of interest by switching to a lower rate "mortgage product", it'll still cost you money. And don't forget, when they've finally wrung out all of the money you think they're going to get from you, the first edition Penny Black stamp they buy from Sotheby's to post your deeds to you will cost you the rip-off sum of £50. <br /><br />Banks, eh? Just institutions whose mission in life is to find as many different positions as possible from which to screw you, whilst at the same time pleading poverty because they've all paid themselves too much in bonuses for pissing your money down the drain. <br /><br />No wonder we're all over a barrel.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-67857810904666259502008-09-29T19:51:00.009+01:002008-10-01T23:37:40.788+01:00Credit Where It's DueI feel I must start by thanking you most sincerely if you are still with me after the endless moaning rant I've been indulging in about the holiday. Sorry. It's been a marathon drone even by my standards. I like to think that getting it out in the open has helped me deal with the sheer bloody annoyance of wasting a huge amount of dosh and annual leave on an experience I wouldn't have wanted if they'd paid me to go. But still. Enough already. We did have some nice times too, but what's the fun in telling you about those? So I've decided that from now on I can let the whole sorry episode wash over me, learn from it and move on.<br /><br />Or so I thought until the post came this morning.<br /><br />Got the credit card bill today. There it was in black and white (soon to be red I fear), the whole sorry catalogue of disaster documented in pounds and euros from start to finish. The Travel Agent's rip-off con trick. The hire car which somehow magically appears to have cost many, many more Euros than we were quoted. That first night meal which had me puking for England, literally, (didn't tell you about that, too much detail). Even the eighteen quid bottle of bog cleaner masquerading as white wine, it was all there as evidence of a bad time had by all. <br /><br />And there was the bill for the umbrella, purchased in a "raindrops keep falling on my head" moment in an attempt to make things more bearable with a bit of retail therapy, that was there too. Sheltering underneath it in the pouring rain, dodging heaps of Day-glo dog-poo, we dashed through the city streets looking for shelter and warmth. <br /><br />"Let's start again," suggests husband, "let's try and make the most of it, even though it's not really our scene" he says as we wait to cross the road.<br /><br />"OK," I say, "it hasn't all been bad, we're having some nice times too I suppose. Looking on the bright side, at least I've gone a trendy new umbrella."<br /><br />"Let's treat it like a bit of a watershed then" he says, laughing.<br /><br />He can be such a witty bugger at times, thank goodness.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-81863193448268420792008-09-28T20:30:00.014+01:002008-10-01T18:46:52.867+01:00Coulda, Woulda, Shoulda.We've never had a proper holiday flop before, so really we should have counted ourselves lucky, but instead as the days went by we tormented the life out of each other with thoughts of what we would rather have spent the money on had we not sleep-walked (or should that be slept-walked?) into this situation.<br /><br />We could have gone to Paris on Eurostar, always a favourite of ours, stayed somewhere swanky and hit the shops big-time. True, someone had set fire to the Chunnel the day before, so that was a bit off-putting, but still. Or maybe we would have been better going to Barcelona for a few days, got a bit of Ramblas shopping under our (designer) belts and a little culture to boot. Right at the start I should of course have insisted on a destination from my recommended list, but no, here we were, disenchanted and disgruntled, unable to find the light at the end of the tunnel which wasn't in fact an on-coming train.<br /><br />The morning after our arrival we woke up with two matching hangovers, the result of drinking far too much on way too empty stomachs. Husband had refused to be thwarted re the lack of red wine and had charmed the hotel receptionist into producing a bottle of white from the back of a cupboard somewhere. Actually, I guess it might have been from under the sink. It was disgusting, tasted of pencil sharpenings and ear-wax (I imagine) but did the job of numbing the pain until dinner time when we re-emerged, slightly pissed but re-energised, re-fettled and ready to party. We had gone on foot in search of the village and spent a good time searching for it before we realised that the dingey parade of shops reached by four flights of un-lit, slippery concrete steps, was in fact, it. <br /><br />In my dreams the village would have had little waterside restaurants with candle-lit tables, smiling waiters and gorgeous food. In reality we were greeted at the local Pizzeria with a scowl, made to sit outside because the staff hadn't yet finished their supper, and only allowed back in when they'd done. It was bloody cold out there. The food took hours to arrive and when it did it was average, so we did the only sensible thing under the circumstances and kept on drinking. We left a huge tip in the hopes that if we had to eat there again during the week, this time they would like us more and maybe give us a smile, or be a little more friendly. It didn't work. This was obviously a local pizzeria for local people. Later that night I regretted both the tip and the tortellini I'd eaten there as my stomach lining and I violently attempted to part company.<br /><br />Consequently, the following morning, things were dire. We went down to breakfast and again, not a soul in sight. I began to fantasise about the reason for it and finally decided that the whole hotel, which was pristine, white and hushed, reminded me of the euthenasia clinic as featured in the BBC1 TV series Holby City a while back. No one was coming in or going out, although I suppose it would have been a lot more worrying if loads of people had been coming in and no one going out. Whatever. It made me a bit suspicious of the breakfast juice, I can tell you. <br /><br />And still it rained. <br /><br />We went into town by taxi, bought an umbrella, hired a car and had a row. I ruined my best flat shoes and my hair went frizzy. Husband trod in dog-mess (unavoidable, the whole place was covered in it - what DO those dogs eat??) and got it on his jeans. Day one was not going well.<br /><br />We looked across the grey sea towards Elba, shrouded in mist. <br /><br />"Napolean died there you know, some say he was poisoned" said husband, trying to distract me from my misery with interesting facts, but failing totally.<br /><br />"Not bloody surprised, probably ate at that fucking pizza parlour."<br /><br />I shouldn't have said that. It was not helping, I know that now. I really needed to get a grip of myself, cheer up and tone down the smart-aleck remarks.<br /><br />But all I could think about was that it was still six more days until I could go home.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-47509210074928487772008-09-24T19:34:00.024+01:002008-09-26T10:22:03.412+01:00If The Rain ComesThe journey from airport to hotel would have been so much better undertaken in the dark. We'd arrived mid-morning, had been greeted by a cheery holiday rep who put us in a cab and waved us off, all the while trying to smile a happy smile even though she was getting thoroughly soaked to the skin. Apparently it hadn't rained in Corsica since May, and whoever or whatever controls the weather over there certainly knew how to pick the best possible moment to welcome us with a storm of monsoon proportions, with raindrops so large they could hit the ground and bounce back up your trouser legs, soaking you up to the knees of your jeans in ten seconds flat. Trying to make us Brits feel at home, no doubt. How kind.<br /><br />Sitting back in the taxi my husband reached for my wet hand. I didn't look at him. Instead I continued to gaze through the steamy cab windows at the passing vista of crumbling high rise flats, industrial yards and derelict concrete buildings. I bit my lip to stop it quivering and wished I'd packed an umbrella and cyanide pill. <br /><br />We arrived at the hotel which was surprisingly pretty considering it's urban surroundings, and my spirits began to lift. I gave myself a bit of a mental telling off for being so defeatist and silly. Maybe it was going to be OK after all. At reception we asked about getting some lunch, we'd been up since 4 a.m. and had avoided the in-flight cold bacon ciabbatta on the grounds that it looked like a bit of a health hazard, and now we were starving. <br /><br />The bad news that this particular hotel had no food service at all apart from breakfast came as a bit of a shock to us, ditto the revelation that everything in the village would now be shut, it being Sunday lunchtime, and wouldn't be opening again until that evening. Perhaps. The only place we would be able to eat at this time of day was back in town, from where we had just come, and as we weren't due to pick up a hire car until the following morning, we were, quite frankly, buggered. And no, sorry, even though this is indeed a hotel in wine making country, we don't actually have a bottle of Corsican red in the so-called bar for you to take up to your room to help pass away the time until dinner.<br /><br />So we started our holidays tired, wet and hungry. And just a little bit grumpy.<br /><br />Things could only get better, right?<br /><br />Yeah, yeah, yeah.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FTLJMSbEnn0&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FTLJMSbEnn0&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-21640721713594321952008-09-23T22:17:00.017+01:002008-09-26T10:03:21.541+01:00And So The Die Was Cast"OK then, Bastia it is" smiled the Travel Agent, outstretching her hand to take my husband's credit card. I couldn't quite remember agreeing to it, but I suppose we must have. <br /><br />I watched in stunned silence, my mouth opening to form the words "hold on a minute, I'm not actually sure......" but husband just beamed at me and said "I've always wanted to go to Corsica, it'll be great" and punched in his PIN.<br /><br />The words "I don't really think I fancy it" withered and died in my mouth. I felt the noose of commitment tightening around my neck. I was trapped into a decision I wasn't sure about. I gave my husband a panicky look, willing him to telepathically get my drift and get the transaction voided. Or maybe get me voided. I tried to say something but it was too late, my protests fell on deaf ears, largely because it was only the voice in my head which was shouting "I've changed my mind". <br /><br />I am a total holiday nightmare. I can never decide where to go. And if, by some weird twist of fate I do actually make a decision, the very second the decision is made I want to get out of it. Make up some silly reasons not to go. It might rain (it did), we might not like it (we didn't), it seems an awful lot of money (it was). <br /><br />The only thing I fear more than going to new places and seeing new things is not going to new places and not seeing new things. I have to really push myself to take that first fearful step and our ultimate destination has to be worth all the effort. I'm not a natural born traveller, nor an adventurer, but merely a home bird with occasional migratory tendencies, eager to fly the cage that I have constructed for myself but rarely brave enough to spread my wings. <br /><br />Usually my fears prove to be groundless and once we arrive everything is fine, but this time I was really worried that we'd made a big mistake.<br /><br />And when we got there, saw the lie of the land, that voice in my head was saying "I told you so."Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-77362828891094998812008-09-22T18:18:00.015+01:002008-09-26T09:57:58.338+01:00Now How Did That Happen?So I said to the travel agent, "I have a list of places I'd like to go to, recommended by some well travelled friends of mine." I think she was impressed. Thanks to your input, it was a very long list. <br /><br />Top of my list was Italy in general, Lake Garda in particular, and if she wanted me to be even more specfic, how about Malcesine? Or if not Garda, how about Maggiore? Or Verona maybe with a little excursion to an Italian lake, or vice versa, or even a short break? If not for a week, then maybe just three or four days or so? Or anything at all?<br /><br />There was nothing available, sorry. I said I was really surprised, that we'd expected there to be loads of last minute holidays given the current financial climate and everyone worried about the price of chicken breasts and bread, and sacrificing their holidays in order to pay the milk bill or keep grandma off the streets. She said that because the weather had been so foul and the news so dire, lots of folk were just desperate to get away from it all and had booked a holiday anyway, and that because several small airlines had so recently gone tits up (OK, she didn't say tits up, but that's what she meant), people were booking through travel agents for last minute deals so that they were protected financially. Or something like that. The long and short of it was that last minute deals were hard to find, and non-existent in some cases. Anyway, there was bugger all in the Italian lakes.<br /><br />So OK, no problem, back to the list. What about Alghero in Sardinia? I'd heard from a reliable source that it is fab. My friend Mimi says there are good views, fab food and very, very laid back people. I really like good views, fab food and especially very, very laid back people, and they usually like us, so can we go there then?<br /><br />No flights available for our week unfortunately.<br /><br />Mmm, what about Cyprus then, my mate Norman thinks it's simply the best. I trust his judgement so what about it? <br /><br />Same thing, couldn't fit a week in around our dates.<br /><br />And so it went on, through my shopping list of desirable destinations until we'd been through them all and not been able to find an available week anywhere to fit in with our holiday fortnight. No to Alghero, forgot to ask about Santorini, couldn't do Malcesine, Maggiore, sorry about Verona, forget Sicily. And Sorrento? Sorrento at such short notice? Pah, you must be kidding. Maybe Cyprus if you fly in the next half hour, but not sure about next week being available and definitely not to any of your mate's other suggestions, that's for sure.<br /><br />And suddenly, she said "Ever thought about Corsica?"<br /><br />I can't say I ever have, to be honest. <br /><br />So I said no, I hadn't.<br /><br />And the next thing I knew, we were going.<br /><br />Oh Bastia.<br /><br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/hcCuBWXd-hc&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/hcCuBWXd-hc&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0&color1=0x5d1719&color2=0xcd311b" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-32468199703097565082008-09-06T18:54:00.006+01:002008-09-06T19:16:29.822+01:00Am I Being Too Fussy?I'm almost too embarrassed to tell you but I'm still in rainy Blighty, despite all of your fantastic travel tips for which I am eternally grateful. They all sound so great, but unfortunately I think we've left our run a wee bit too late. The travel agent surprised us by saying that there aren't that many late-deals around to the places we want to go to but can offer us hundreds of holidays which we don't really fancy. In fact, some of the deals on offer made me want to hide in the airing cupboard until next April. Top of his list was an "adult-only" holiday in a concrete village in Spain, all inclusive, as much as you can eat and drink with all night entertainment and escorted trips. Great if you like that's your sort of thing, but my personal idea of hell. <br /><br />Next up was a Mediterraean cruise, ditto the above details but this time waking up in a different location every day with forty-five minutes or so ashore to "do" the area local to the port, then back on board and off to the next one. Sounded absolutely knackering, and thankfully I was able to use my claustrophobia as an excuse to say no thanks to an inside cabin deep in the bowels of the ship. <br /><br />We could have gone to Egypt if only I'd had the jabs previously and the time to get them done before we set off. Not that I wanted to go to Egypt particularly anyway (no offence, Egypt), as my taste buds were working overtime for Italian food and culture at the time. <br /><br />So here we are, still at home, with two weeks' holiday and as yet nowhere to go. And it's still pissing down.<br /><br />I feel so stupid.<br /><br />Remind me to book earlier next year.Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4285758144007302365.post-8784002238360175872008-08-27T22:03:00.007+01:002008-08-27T23:59:51.087+01:00Tell Me Where To GoLord Snooty and I are trying to book a holiday. We have two weeks off in September and as yet we haven't arranged anything. The problem is that himself travels a lot and I don't. He's been there, done that and has several hundred tee-shirts to prove it. Me, I have a wardrobe of foxy summer clothes, as yet unworn, and a burning urge to pose in them. I need a little warm sun on my skin, a poolside glass of something potent and fruity with several floating umbrellas and a decent amount of fizz in my hand. I need sun, sea and, erm, anything else that's going, if you get my drift. I just don't know where to go to get it.<br /><br />Husband is happy to take a holiday wherever I would like to go, within the bounds of possibility, but the trouble is I just can't decide. That seems like a very spoilt thing to admit to, but I don't mean it in the way it sounds. I just can't choose. I am having one of my famous dithers. <br /><br />I quite fancy Italy, but which bit? Positano sounds extremely cool but hideously expensive and now that I equate everything in terms of kitchen equipment (just a mini-break in that area costs twice as much as a new dishwasher, freezer and cooker-hood combined) it is definitely making me think twice about spending that sort of cash for a few days away. It feels almost immoral. The Italian lakes look fab, and more realistically priced, but which one to choose? I also like the look of those Trullo thingies (you know, those little pointy round stone huts), but is that going a bit too far on the "authentic Italy" scale? Presumably they have electricity, or where would I plug in my hair straighteners? These are all very important questions, the answers to which I simply do not know. I need some unbiased help.<br /><br />So this is where you guys come in, please pay attention: <br /><br />We don't like: <br /><br />Anything to do with caravans, camping or mosquitoes, long haul flights, injections for hideous diseases (OK, that's just me, husband's already jabbed up) or in fact the actual hideous diseases themselves. We are happy to give destinations known to induce diarrhoea and vomiting a miss too. <br /><br />Also not keen on:<br /><br />Inner city litter. Scary dudes who grab your bag and make off with your passport, money and (worse still) my makeup. The bastards.<br /><br />Can do without: <br /><br />Screaming kids who cannon-ball into the pool and splash you and bat you with their sodding beachballs. <br /><br />Really dislike:<br /><br />"Real English Pubs" when they are not, in fact, in England.<br /><br /><br />We really, really like: <br /><br />Sun, great scenery, good food and wine, nice restaurants and bars, a touch of arty-farty culture, a little bit of light shopping and comfortable but not too over the top accomodation, although I've never been one to turn down an upgrade or a little bit of unashamed luxury if it's on offer. <br /><br />We could go back again to where we always go, which ticks all the above boxes, but it seems a shame to do the same thing time and time again when there are so many other places to go and things to see, but perhaps it's the safest bet.<br /><br />Unless, of course, you've got any other suggestions?Swearing Motherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/07277450057243928790noreply@blogger.com30