Doesn't time fly when you're having fun, eh? It feels like only yesterday was Monday, but then that might have something to do with teh medikashun I'm on.

Anyhoo, I've had an idea for a fun game to play to take us into the weekend, and it is to think up 'The Worst Possible Thing To Say When Stopped By The Police'

For example:

'Ello officer, show us yer truncheon then, darlin'!'
'It's true! The rozzers do get uglier as you get older!'
'Of course I'm not drunk, I only do crack cocaine these days'
'Is it true about your helmet being made to fit the shape of your head then, tit-head?'
'Ere, I'm pregnant, and I need your helmet to piss in!'
'You're a copper, any idea where the nearest dealers hang out?'
'If I punch you will you give me a bed for the night?'
'I thought you had to pass an intelligence test to become a police officer nowadays, no?'
'Do you know what ACAB stands for?'
'What's got four legs and a c*nt in the middle of its back? A police horse!'
'Mind if I borrow your truncheon for a moment?'
'Excuse me, can I take your photograph please?'

As always, I'm sure you can do far better, so over to you, but just before I go - there's a Gold Star available for anyone who correctly guesses which one of the above statements I have said to a member of Her Majesty's Police Force.

TTFN, and I wish you all the best weekend possible!
*mwah*

Need for Speed

Quite some moons ago I passed my driving test and was let loose upon the roads of Londinium.
Although it had taken me more attempts than I'd have liked to pass, I was a fairly confident driver and it didn't take me long to suss out the difference between driving the 1.0l Nissan Cherry that had belonged to my driving instructor, and the 1978 Ford Escort, 1.6l, mk2 that was held together with rust, gaffer tape and a prayer, but went from 0-60mph in about 5.4 seconds thanks to the previous owner having fiddled about with the engine a little bit*
After about six months, 'Turpin'** and I felt as though we'd been driving together for years. I'd learnt all his little quirks such as his refusal to start on occasion unless walloped 'just there' on the starter motor, and how he liked to break into a full pelt gallop whenever anyone dared to challenge him at traffic lights by revving their engines at him.
That was also great fun. Especially when some twat wearing a baseball cap would pull up next to us in a shiny new Beemer or 'Over and think that just because a 'girly blonde' driving an old car that looked as if it had just done a season's banger racing wouldn't be able to even start the engine would be easy to over take or cut up, they'd suddenly find themselves right next to a car that seriously looked as if it wanted a scrap and would not mind getting a couple of scrapes on it in exchange for ripping off the other car's paintwork if it edged just a fraction too close to it.
Yep, Turpin and I were a great team and only the threat of prison and the breaker's yard stopped us from having as much fun as we'd have liked. We knew our stomping ground and we like it.
Now during those years I had a boyfriend who lived about five miles away from my home, and on occasion I would drive over to stay the night. Most times I would set off around early evening, just after or before the rush hour so that Turpin and I could have a good canter along the A4020 without too many people getting in our way.
Our usual route was to head along the A4020 from Ealing, then turn off towards a road that would cross over a point known as the Three Bridges, because that is one of the very few places in the UK where a road goes over an aqueduct, which in turn runs over a railway line.
It's a historic monument, and also, because it is a weak bridge that carries the road, there are width restrictions in place in the approach, and a roundabout directly after you reach the brow of the bridge.
I know many people who hate the site, simply because the first width restriction on the approach is about twenty yards long, but the roundabout and speed bumps are all on adverse cambers.
I've never had a problem there (except when I hit black ice and went sideways for a little bit) but many other drivers do, and you can see testament to this by looking at the numerous paint scrapes that adorn the just over 6 foot wide width restriction posts there.
In brief, that bit of the road is an bit of an bugger if you misjudge your speed or car width.

So anyway, now I've set the scene, back to the story.

One night I was on my way over to the boyfriend's far later than I normally would have gone as I'd been out to see some friends.
I got the the traffic lights on the A4020 at around 23:45 hours, and as I waited on the inside lane for the lights to change, a large dark car pulled up beside me.
The lights had only just changed to red so I had to wait a little while and for some reason I glanced over at the driver of the other car, only to discover he was staring right at me.
I quickly looked away so as to avoid eye contact but as I waited for the green light I could still feel his gaze on me, and I didn't like it one little bit.
As I waited for what seemed about an hour, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I knew something wasn't right about the man in the car next to me.
I took the handbrake off and kept Turpin quietly at braking point until at last the lights changed and as fast as I could (remember I could do 0-60mph quite quickly in that car) I sped off along the inside lane.
Now, farther along the road the three lanes turned into two, with the inside lane that I was in turning traffic to the left to take it to the Three Bridges. I stuck to the (then) 60mph speed limit and thought I'd left the other car standing, but next I knew he was right beside me.
Literally.
And he was literally trying to get as close as possible to my car!
At that point I knew the fucktard idiot was trying to play silly buggers and things got worse when he suddenly revved his engine up a notch and clipped the rear of poor Turpin, clipping his lovely chrome bumper as he did so!
All I could think of to do was to get away, and so I stomped on the accelerator and managed to pull ahead of him before he tried to hit me again.
By this time we were rapidly approaching the turn off, so I steadied myself, checked to ensure there were no other vehicles around, and managed to take the near 45 degree corner at about thirty miles per hour, with no skids or panic.
I checked my rear view mirror and for a second I thought I'd lost him, but then I heard a roar of an engine and there he was, heading straight for me as fast as he could.
The thought that went through my brain rhymed with 'clucking bell' and I prayed that a police car would suddenly turn up from nowhere, but as is the way of things, of course there were none to be seen.***
So there I was, on my own in my car, with a maniac behind me trying to ram me off the road for gods alone knew what reason and I was doing about 50mph and rapidly approaching a very narrow width restriction that takes you through to a roundabout on an adverse camber.

Woo.

And indeed, hoo.

Stopping my car and asking him what the problem was, did not seem to be a good idea, and neither did slowing down so that I might possibly try to 'undertake' him before we got to the width restriction, so I did the only thing I could think of to do under the circumstances and put my foot down.

I went through the width restriction at just over 50 mph, bounced over the sleeping policeman, and easily managed to control Turpin as we leaped over the hump-backed bridge and hung a right at the roundabout...

But as I went through the width restriction, all I heard above the revving engines was a very satisfying sort of

'SCRASHTHUMPSCRRRRRRREEEEETTCCHUMp-p-p-p-p-ppsssshhhhcrtink!'

I didn't stop to look, but I don't think he made it through the gap somehow...

I reported the incident to the police when I got to the boyfriend's place, but all they found was a black BMW that was well on its way to the Great Scrapyard in the Sky.
I still don't know what happened to the arsehole that was driving it, but I hope the experience put him off driving for a very, very long time!

*A lot.
** A cookie for the first person who knows why I called my car by that name.
*** Why is it that if you fail to indicate or miss a right hand turn only sign you can be hauled into court for driving without undue care and attention and charged with dangerous driving, even though it's only 06:30 am and there are no other drivers on the road, but when someone is trying to ram your car when you're in it, there are no coppers within a ten mile radius, eh?

Woohoo! Double Entendre Day yet again, and following in the spirit of my recent accident, your photo for today's Caption Competition is -



You know what to do and where to do it, so get stuck in!

There's an aspirin for every entry, and a can of cola to go with it should I get me a 69.

Over to you, then.

Re: The Choose-O

Please my little sugar lumps do not be angry, but I am postponing the Choose-O tale until Thursday, as something happened to me yesterday that is just too damn weird to not relate right now.

So, yesterday I was not the happiest of bunnies wot with me 'arfuritis' playing up something chronic, (knees, hips, neck, back, paws, everything extremely 'Ouchy') and what with hardly being able to type thanks to the bad paper cuts that were deep enough to require plasters I decided the best thing all round would be to try and stay as still as possible and keep taking teh medikashun in the hope that some of it might work.
But me being the restless insomniac thing that I am, when I got a call from the Ex-Partner-In-Crime asking me if I was up to meeting him just up the road for a snifter at the pub then a trip to the shops so that I could get me some food shopping in with the promise of a lift back home in his car, I thought 'Akay! It'll do me good to get a bit of fresh air and so, and also I won't have to carry any bags home either, woohoo!'

And so I scampered up the road as fast as I could, then remembered I was still in my pyjamas, went back home again, got changed and finally hobbled it up to the pub.
We sat and chatted about stuff that had to be sorted while I quaffed a couple of glasses of the house paint stripper, and when we'd finished I said that I'd go on ahead to the supermarket while he stopped off at the offy for a couple of cans of cider for himself.
I'd only been in the store for about three minutes and was stood trying to decide what variety of rice I wanted, when suddenly my ankle was crushed up against the bottom food shelf by something that was very heavy and exerting a hell of a lot of force on my bones.
I yelped in surprize and tried to move away from whatever the fuck heck it was, but in doing so I managed to twist my right knee, which just happens to be the one that is most affected by arthritis, and therefore the most painful.
Yelping, swearing and tyring to get away from whatever was pinning my ankle to the static shelf didn't work, so I tried again, but rather more loudly and at last the pressure went and I managed to fall over onto the nearby boxes of parboiled rice.
Next I knew a shop assistant came into view asking if I was alright and explaining that he simply hadn't seen me, and after swearing a little bit more I insisted that I was fine and tried to stand up.
Turns out, I was not as 'alright' as I thought I was, and standing up made everything even more painful and the store start to wobble, so I decided to fall over to the floor as the parboiled rice packets had proved uncomfortable and far from sturdy.
It was then that the EPIC turned up and after asking me if I'd managed to finish the shopping, made sure I was not going to croak, told the crowd of shoppers to sod off and stop staring at me, made sure the shop assistant got me a chair, settled me down and went to finish the shopping.
By this time I'd managed to calm down a tad, and when the shop assistant asked if I was alright, I said that I thought I'd live, but that as I had arthritis and had just had a fully laded pallet thingy ram a plastic bread container into my ankle and pinning it to a stationary object and had twisted a knee whilst trying to escape, I was in rather a lot of pain.
To my amazement, the shop assistant said that he'd not only done first aid, but also had finished a course in physiotherapy, and he would feel a lot better if I would let him check my ankle over to make sure I was alright.
Wincing, I managed to get my shoe off and let him check out the damage.
Being a qualified massage therapist and first aider myself, I'd already sussed out that I was in for some very pretty bruising and a day or so of putting my hind paws up with alternating hot and cold compresses, but reckoned a second opinion wouldn't go amiss.
The chap started testing out my ankle, and straight away found the spot that had been damaged. He then started to work on the pressure points around the injury and test out my tendons to ensure they were all still doing what they were supposed to be doing.
I was stunned.
The bloke was a natural at massage and healing. I should know, as I was brought up by a mother who was a 'medium, clairvoyant and healer' and I come from a long line of 'white witches' which is why I probably ended up doing the same thing myself, although I've so far avoided being burnt at the stake*
The bloke did an amazing job, and although my poor paw is still turning all colours of the rainbow and my right knee rebels when I try to put weight on it, I know I could have been a hell of a lot worse.
The only time I panicked while he was sorting my ankle out, was when another shop assistant tried to pass by where I was sitting pulling a fully laded pallet truck. He soon changed direction when I said clearly and in no uncertain terms that in no way was he going to come anywhere near me that the sodding thing if he valued his life.
Anyways, a little while later, I was helped to the exit using a shopping trolley as an impromptu zimmer frame, and was told to please let them know how I was doing, especially if I got any worse so that they could help me with anything.
Not only that, but the EPIC was not charged for the shopping!
Suing them never even entered my head as the whole thing really was an accident. I know I'm going to be in rather more pain than usual for a little while, but all the staff, even the ones who had nothing to do with me getting squished, were so very helpful and considerate I even felt bad for having sworn so much when I got 'attacked'.
What was so weird about the whole incident, is that I really felt that they were genuinely sorry about what had happened, and I was so well looked after by everyone there.
In this day and age, that is a very, very rare thing to happen.
I've had accidents before that were not my fault where no-one has even had the courtesy to ask if I was alright, let alone apologize, check me over, get me a glass of water and tell me to please lest me know how I'm doing asap.
The last place where I had an accident was at my old local pub a couple of years ago. Nobody there even asked if I was alright even though I was carted away in an ambulance, and the only comment a member of staff came out with at the time was that it was nothing to do with her.
The best thing about that is that they've now closed, and the pub will be undergoing a change of management very soon. I did a little happy skip and 'LOLed' when I saw the sign in the window.
Maybe if they'd been as caring as the staff at my local supermarket they'd still be in business.

Maybe.

*Getting stoned is an entirely different matter.

Bonjour my cherubs, and welcome to another week in the wacky ol' blogosphere.
I'm finding it very difficult to type today as not only is me arfuritis playin' up, but I've also managed to cut the tips of two of my fingers on my left paw, and have plasters on both. Nothing serious, but 'OW!'

Anyway, before I give you the choices for tomorrow's entertainment, I want to share with you the funniest tale of Police woe I've heard, evah!
If you've already heard it, please discuss in the comments box, and if you haven't, just fall about laughing, same as wot I did.

Story here. <- clicky

Choose-O choices are -

Need for Speed.
The Accused.
Bad Case of the Munchies.

Again, apologies for not being very entertaining, but this short piece of typing has taken about 45 minutes to get right. Anyhoo, choose wisely, and don't forget to tell me all about your exciting weekends while you're down there, akay?

PS. Another one of my piccies got used by The Londonist.
I think they like my clickage, yay!

Guten Tag, meine Lieblinges! And I hope you're already and set for the fun I have in store for you today!

For this 'get you into the mood for the weekend's' entertainment, I have decided upon a new version of an old theme being the 'Round Robin Story'.
If you haven't played before (or can't remember playing it here) the object is that I write the opening of a story in the comments box, then when I'm doned, you all take it in turns to carry it on, one sentence at a time, akay?
Now the twist, is that each sentence must start with the same letter as the last word in the previous sentence, ie: 'And so the cat sat upon the aspidistra and', would be followed by something like 'done a poo!' and so on and so forth.
Got the idea? Fabulous! And in that case I will first wish you all a happy and relaxing weekend, and then see you in the comments box!

PS. You can add as many sentences as you like, but try and let someone else have go between goes. Otherwise it can get very confusing. Trust me, I know this empirically!

PPS. By popular request, here's another piccy of a kitten.

Tootlebye!

Felicitations once again my little sugarplums! And as I write, I am hoping that you all have your clever hats on today because something well weird happened to me the other night, and I can't figure out how teh feck it happened...

*cue Twighlight Zone theme*

The other night I was once again fighting a losing battle with insomnia. Although I was managing to catch the odd half hour or so of zeds, I kept waking up whenever a mouse farted in next door's garden and I was sorely tempted to try hitting my head repeatedly against the wall to see if that would render me unconscious.
But as I'm not over keen on violence*, I tried instead the staring at the ceiling and trying to think about nice, comfy, sheepy things as I'd heard that counting such can aid the journey to the Land of Nod.
I'd finally managed to get there when suddenly I found myself wide awake and staring straight up at the set of blue, fairy lights that I keep hanging above my bed.

Which were on.

That was very strange as I had not switched them on for at least a week, and even stranger was that they were glowing rather than being 'full on', just like the fading glow that happens for a little while right after I switch them off.
I rubbed my eyes to make sure I wasn't just being blurry, but no, they were definitely glowing.
I glanced at the clock and noted that it was 02:44 hours, and then reached over to check that the lights were definitely not plugged in.
They most definitely were not, and seeing as plugging the lights into the extension board was the only way of making them work, I found myself wondering why the hell the unplugged in lights above my head were still glowing.
I checked again, and then double checked to make sure I hadn't got the plugs muddled up, but the only thing plugged into the extension board was my mobile phone charger.

But the lights above my head were still glowing...

I went as far as switching off the main power point where the extension board was powered from, but still the blue fairy lights continued to glow.
It was only when I went to grab my camera to try and get a piccy that they finally faded with a mini-disco flash attempt before they stopped.

I swear they were not plugged in. I even moved the plug about six feet away from the board, just in case the electricity was somehow reaching the lights, but that made no difference to the glow.
Once they'd faded, I noted the time again and three minutes had passed.

But they were not plugged in.

So how the fuc blooming heck did they glow like that?

Seriously, I'm not making this up and if anyone can give me a sensible reason as to how a set of fairy lights can light up without a charge, I really, really would like to know!
Answers/explanations if any in the usual place please.


*Strange, as I seem to have a natural talent for it.

Welcome readers.

As most of you are aware, today is Double Entendre Day. This means that you must ensure you slip a big one to as many members of MI6 as is convieniently possible.

Your mission for today, is to add at least 69 comments to the photograph below or else The Evil Overlords from McGonads, will release their special, secret Destructo-Virus, thus ensuring the end of the world as we know it.

The photo for today's Caption Competition is -

and your time begins now.

Antidotes all round for every comment left, and a chance of a virus-free chzbrgr going should I get me a 69.

This post will self destruct in T-minus...

Steak Dinner

Many moons ago when I was running a pub near Reading by mistake, I managed to get a great deal on meat from the local butcher and began doing Steak Dinners at extremely reasonable prices whilst still managing to make a jolly decent profit.
There were plenty of other options on the menu but the Steak Dinners were the most popular with some of the locals making a weekly visit and booking their favourite table for the occasion.
As we were still one of the the last remaining pubs to ignore what the EU said we could or could not do, dogs were also welcome and one canine regular would help me out by scoffing down any leftover bits of meat when he brought his humans to the pub, bless 'im.
But this tale is about the time the Then-partner-in-crime's 'adopted son' and his wife brought their little baby girl to see 'grandad'* in his new pub.

The baby was only about ten months old, and was doing her best to escape from mum and dad at any given opportunity. Although she was quick off the mark, her walking skills weren't that fantastic so she'd fall down on her bum after a six foot dash, and catching her again wasn't that difficult.
But as I said, she was quick off the mark.
On the evening they came in we weren't that busy so the TPIC sat and caught up on family news and getting to know the baby while I carried on looking after the customers and handing back said baby whenever it got out from under the table, or the pushchair, or away from 'grandad' again.
Mum and Dad decided to try one of our Steak Dinners and while they tucked in, they stuck baby between them on the bench where they were seated so that she could have some pureed veg that I'd specially prepared.
Mum and Dad were enjoying their meals very much and although baby had woofed down my special Veggies a la Misty, she was far more interested in what her parents were eating.
Every couple of minutes she'd reach out to try and grab a chip, mushroom, rare steak, whatever she thought she could nab without being noticed and as I was sans customers for a little while I sat down at the table with everyone to watch the anklebiter's antics.
Mum and Dad were still busy talking to the TPIC, and baby was getting bored.
Very bored.
After a while, baby noticed the cutlery that mummy and daddy were using and decided to have a go at playing with mummy's fork, but luckily mummy noticed just in time and took the sharp item away from baby.
Baby was most aggrieved at mummy, and sat pouting while planning her next move.
She played it perfectly.
One moment mummy and daddy were happily talking and finishing off their Steak Dinners when they next thing they knew, baby had grabbed hold of daddy's steak knife and was waving it around like a Samurai on ecstasy.
Mum, dad, and 'grandad' all ducked for cover at once while I did my best to help the situation by falling about laughing.
I couldn't help it; she looked so happy and pleased with herself as she wielded the knife past dad's face for the third time.
But all good things come to an end and mummy managed to get the knife away from baby by bribing her with some chocolate before she managed to stab anyone.
I've never wanted children, but if I had been able to choose I would have opted for one like that, definitely!

*Oh, how I laughed.

Buen día mis pequeñas coliflores, and today's venture into the the wacky world of the blogosphere begins with some excitement!

I have just been told by wild-seven to listen to this link to today's edition of the Chris Moyles show for a very good reason. Go to the 'Listen to today's show again' bit, and just after 9am (Dave's tedious link) you will find out what I'm on about. Show can be heard here!
If you've never read this blog before (or have the memory capacity of an aubergine) I'll explain all later, but I'm sure regulars will understand!

And that's all the news I have time for today as in a few minutes I am off to explore the wilds of Londinium to belatedly celebrate the Ex-partner-in-crime's birthday.

But afore I go, the choices for tomorrow's entertainment are -

• Steak Dinner.
• The Accused.
• Need for Speed.

Choose wisely, and don't forget to tell me how your weekends were while you're down there, akay?

Oh, and one last bit, clicky here for the best ever 'typo mistake' I've seen in ages.

Tootles!

As I type, it is 01:45 hours, and once again insomnia is being a cu pain in the arse.

Only a few hours ago I was enjoying myself while eschewing St. Valentine's day in my own special way, but after I'd finished off my dinner, polished off the box of choccies, chugged the last of the Vino Colapso, and watched the end of my favourite Rom-Com, I decided it was time to head up the apples and pears to bed, perchance to spleep for a change.

No chance.

Something was bothering me; a feeling that I'd forgotten something, and not a something that involved more alcohol either.

No. This was more a feeling that not all was right in the world, an opportunity for mischief and piss-taking merriment might be missed and I had to get to the 'puter asap, lest the moment be lost for ever...

And now, I've remembered.

It's Scaryduck's birthday today, rah!

I say 'rah', because although we rip the piss weewee out of each other, we are friends really.
Getting him to admit he has friends of any description is tricky as he prefers people to think that he only gets through life with the help of the highly esteemed (and fragrant) Missus Duck*, but he really does have friends, I say am proud to admit that I count him as one of mine in the hope that one day I will get a drink out of him for once, the cheap git.

So today, I ask you all to please raise your glasses in a toast to him, and if you feel like it, buy me something from my wish list head over to his place and insult him wish him a Happy Birthday, akay?

I hope you do, honestly, as it'll make him feel seriously guilty about him forgetting my milestone birthday last year.

And also in Scaryduck's honour, I wish him kittens.

Fahsends and fahsends of kittens!
Don't forget to send him as many kittens as you can, alright?

*And the anti-madness medikashun, of course.

Y'awlright my little chimichangas?

I hope so, as today I would like you all to be in the naughtiest mood possible.
The reason being is that last week, someone going by the moniker of Santa Baby left me a question over at Scaryduck's blog saying -

"Misty, do you just post on this blog to drive traffic to your own? It's a bit needy isn't it"

My response was incredibly polite and read thusly -

"Santa Baby: No. Scary and I are old friends and I just try my best to wind him up, the same as he does to me on occasion.
We've also both looked after each other's blogs and posted for each other when we haven't been able to post for ourselves for whatever reason.
Next question?"

Sadly I did not receive any further contact via Scary's Haloscan comments (Which do work just fine, btw!) although I thought there might be an opportunity for discussion.

I felt saddened, and still do.

If I am to be judged as being 'desperately in need of comments' I would like the whole caboodle of insults from Mr. Duck to be taken into account, and although I do not have time to write out a full set, I give you these examples -

"Belle de Jour stole all my best ideas"
"I wouldn't bother reading this, Scaryduck's tons better"
"The internet's sloppy seconds"
"Something something hairy axe wound something"
"Chaos, ruin, disorder... my work here is done"

Akay, that's not all I have to paw I admit, but go through the records and you will find that Mr Scary and I have been slagging each other off having the odd friendly spat for ages.

And as long as he's up for it, I will be as well.

Game = On.

So, today, as I know you all love me far more than you do that manky duck wot only talks about beating up pensioners and horrific ways to plant tomatoes, I'm sure you can all come up with witty and erudite remarks and rejoinders that I can leave among his comments, so that if he ever has a pop at me (being such a sweet, innocent little darling that writes about kittens and so) I can give him what for in return, akay?

Don't worry about being caught out by Scary and getting into trouble, as no-one ever reads this blog unless I comment over at his.

Honest.

Also, before I go, I wish you all a happy and relaxing weekend, although I do not offer any refunds if you don't.

PS. I love him really.

Additional, 16:46 hours For Debster -

Ask, and ye might recieve.

On size; and does it matter?

A while ago I was waiting for a bus. I wasn't feeling particularly wonderful as I'd had to go see my solicitor about the mess another solicitor made of my late father's will (it's a long story) , it was raining and I had the start of one of those colds that threaten to make your head block up so you can't think.
Anyway, while I was at the bus-stop I noticed a woman aged about fifty staring at me with a rather disapproving look on her face for some reason. I was wondering whether I had a pair of knickers stuck to my jeans via static from the dryer or a large smudge of chocolate somewhere about my person when she turned to her friend and in a 'whisper' loud enough for me to hear said "You know, that girl's far too skinny. She'd be much happier if she had a couple of burgers or pies inside her, don't you reckon?"
Normally I'd have said something to her along the lines of "I might be slimmer than you, but at least I can go out and not scare the horses" but what with the dark cloud of depression hanging over me I simply couldn't be arsed.
A year or so ago I was about eleven stone. At 5'7" that's not exactly skinny, and as I've always weighed about a stone more than any of my peers who were the same size and height as me, (why I don't know) I looked about ten stone.
I felt alright with myself, and apart from hating my stomach because it's never been as flat as I'd like, I wasn't worried except when I couldn't get into my favourite jeans.
Then over the last year or so I somehow lost over two stones.
How, I honestly do not know, and the only reason I can think of is that I've been walking a lot more as I can't afford to run my car. I've been checked out my the doctors and apart from an on-going Vitamin D deficiency, they can't find any reason for my weight loss either. Possible explanations are that it might be because I've been far more stressed and depressed than usual, the vitamin deficiency, or the arthritis that has decided to slowly start creeping around my body looking for places to stay.
At the lowest weight I was about eight and three quarter stones, and although I felt fine with it, a load of my friends informed me that I was looking far too skinny. I rarely look in mirrors but one day I saw a photo of me looking rather like Skeletor and I realized what they were on about so I quickly added a few more (and note the word more) cream cakes and pizzas into my diet.
I'm now up to about nine and a half stone and I'm very happy with my weight, thankyouverymuch, but it took my friends a lot of convincing that I am not anorexic and that I was eating, and eating as much as I could.
I just happen to be one of those people that can not physically eat a great deal in one go, and I find it hard to put on a lot of weight.
As I type this I can say 'hand on heart' that as soon as I've hit publish, I'm going downstairs to get me a fried eggy sarnie as I'm hungry, but that's all I'll be able to manage.

A few years ago I went out for lunch with a friend of mine who told me that she'd always had a problem with her weight, even though she hardly ate anything.
We decided on a brand name pizza chain place that does a buffet lunch to dine in, and after we'd settled at our table, went to grab our food.
My friend was literally twice the size of me.
She had three times the amount of food on her plate than I did.
She realized that she was kidding herself as to how much she was eating, and went on a diet that was tailor made for her by her GP.
Before, she'd been too overweight to get pregnant, but is now the proud mother of two happy little ankle-biters, so a happy ending for her.

But she had been happy with her weight, and her husband adored her whatever size she was.
So apart from the possible health issues, does it matter what size anybody is?

Only once have I worked in a place where someone's size has made it impossible for them to do the job and that was while I was working in a pub in London.
Although the pub was huge, the space behind the bar was not, and although the new bar maid came with all the necessary experience and so, she simply could not fit in the space, and neither I nor the other barman could get past her.
She cried when the boss gently told her that it wasn't working out, but because of her size, no-one else could do their job either.

Here's what I reckon. If you're happy within yourself and you're fit and healthy, it shouldn't really matter what size or shape you are. If anybody is not happy with how they look, then stop moaning about it and change it.
But for feck's sake, if you've got any derogatory remarks about someone else's appearance, keep them to yourself as the next person you might accuse of being too skinny could be me.
And trust me, I will have a lot to say in return.

Good day to you my lovelies!

I trust you are all ready to give my box a jolly good stuffing, as today I'm just getting stuck in without any preamble whatsoever.

And so, your photo for today's Caption Competition is -



A tasty Hotdog going for every entry, and extra spicy sauce available should I get me a 69.

Still here?

GET IN THERE!

Polizei!

Many moons ago I landed a job in a hotel in Switzerland. My mother had been working nearby and on one of the occasions that she dropped in for a meal she got talking to the manageress and found out she needed a waitress with bar experience, so a couple of months later I arrived and settled into learning how to wait on people in 'Schweizer Deutsch'.
Apart from a few teething problems with language problems I soon got the hang of it and after a month or so I'd pretty much got to grips with the job.
One day however, I had a day off and my mum decided she'd take me over to a restaurant in Austria that she liked so I grabbed my passport and off we went.
It was at the Border that I had a look at my passport. For some reason I'd only got a 'one year' one rather than the full 'ten year issue' and this is where the whole problem began.
Reading the terms and conditions of my 'one year passport' I discovered that I was not allowed to work in a foreign country unless I got myself a full passport, so my mum quickly made a couple of calls to a friend and got the address of the British Consulate in Geneva so I could write to them and tell them that while I'd been out on holiday on my 'one year pass' I'd gained lawful employment, and please could they send me a full ten year passport ASAP.
Fortunately, I was told that there would be no problems with that and my new, shiny, ten year pass would be with me within a fortnight, woohoo!
Except that there was a bit of a problem, and it was with the local Swiss Police.
The manageress of the hotel was by law required to supply work papers for every one of her employees and as soon as I'd arrived she'd applied for them. The papers would usually all be in order within a month in the case of a foreign person coming in to work, so she would have to show the local rozzers my papers very soon.
In order to receive my papers she had to produce my passport.
A passport that would arrive in two weeks time.
This is where things got 'interesting'.
The main problem with the local coppers is that because the hotel's restaurant was very popular and also on their route, they would often pop in for a snack or a drink whilst on duty.
As I wasn't supposed to be there without a valid passport I would have to go and hide every time we saw a police car heading up the mountain towards us, but as it was an extremely slow part of the season with very few guests and so staying, that wasn't much of a problem and I'd usually just go and take a quick break until they'd gone again.
The regulars knew about the situation and thought it hilarious and would on occasion sneak up behind me and shout 'Polizei!' while I was holding a tray of coffees or similar.
I soon learnt the local lingo for 'Sod off you gits', by the way.
So anyway, in the main, things were alright unless the rozzers turned up and found me working before my passport arrived.
Until a family booked in for the weekend.
It was unusual for anyone to be staying at that time of the year, but mummy, daddy and the two point four kiddies had been visiting family in Austria, heard about the hotel and decided to stay for a while instead of heading straight back to the other side of Switzerland. Gods alone knew why as there was sweet F.A to do round the area at the time, but decide to stay they did.
The first thing that they must have thought 'odd' was when I was dragging my laundry bag down to the laundry. I had a very large load to be done as not only did my clothes need doing, but all my towels and so were in the bag too and it took me rather an effort to drag the bag through the bar where they were having breakfast.
I was off duty at the time, but one of the regulars stopped by and jokingly called out to me 'What have you got in the bag then Misty, a body or something?'
I replied with a wry smile and was about to say 'Of course not' but then spotted a police car heading towards the car park.
Renewing my efforts, I dragged the heavy bag towards the kitchen area where the laundry chute was, shoved it in and legged it upstairs before the cops came in for their coffees.
As I scampered back through the bar I noticed that the family were looking at me with rather raised eyebrows for some reason.
Later that day there was a party planned and although it was still my day off, I'd been asked if I could help out with the preparation for the do and being the nice person I am I agreed.
So that evening at about 18:00 hours I was helping out behind the bar and also in the kitchen if needed.
18:00 hours was also the time the family decided they were going to have their dinner.
I still couldn't figure out why they seemed rather nervous when I showed up but didn't give it much though and gave them a friendly smile as I said 'Good evening'.
A little while later, one of the other waitresses needed to chop up some lemons for the drinks and asked the kitchen staff if they had a knife she could use. As I was in the kitchen I called out that I had a knife and would bring it to her, but as I walked into the bar holding the thing, guess what happened?
Yep, one of the local police walked through the door, so as quick as I could I dropped the knife in the sink and legged it back to the safety of the kitchen.
This was also noticed by the family, although they hadn't heard why I was bringing the sharp piece of pointy metal into the bar.
All perfectly innocent, but you can imagine what they must have been thinking.
Worse was yet to come though.
The next day was Sunday and they were due to leave the next day.
Sundays at the hotel were lovely and quiet at that time of year with mostly only the locals around during the day with the occasional guests turning up for lunch or dinner.
I was back on duty when the family came down to breakfast, and apart from the sous chef I was the only person on duty at that time.
Now another point to this tale is that most of the locals were farmers and we would often get our meat, eggs and milk and so fresh from the nearby farms.
That morning one of the farmers was due to drop off a delivery and he called in advance to say that as he was running late, he'd drop the package off by the front door and toot his horn to let us know it was there.
A short while later I heard the toot and as the sous chef was in the middle of cooking, I went to get the package.
I hadn't been told what the delivery was, but looking inside I found half a side of fresh pork that was for a barbecue the next day.
Sighing to myself, I grabbed the bag and managed to get the thing up the stairs and into the hall leading to the bar.
From there I decided it would be easiest to drag the piece of pig through to the kitchen via the bar where yes, the family were still breaking their fast.
As I passed their table I gave them yet another of my friendliest smiles but was met with expressions of total shock.
Confused, I carried on dragging the side of pork through to the kitchen whereupon I looked down and realized that the bag had leaked and not only was there blood all over my apron, I'd left a trail of the stuff right through the bar where they'd been eating.
Trying not to laugh at what they must have been thinking I dashed back out to try and explain, but they'd left the table with their breakfasts only half touched.
I changed my apron, cleared up the blood and explained what had happened, including the bits with the laundry and the knife to the manageress when she came down an hour or so later.
She found the whole situation hilarious and said that she'd try and explain to the family when she next saw them.
The family came back for lunch, but the manageress was caught up with making the telephone orders for the coming week and didn't get a chance to explain about things until it was time for the staff lunch break.
Now, the family were dining in the posh bit of the restaurant which led off from the bar area where I and the kitchen staff sat down to eat.
She was about to explain when suddenly the chef spotted yet another police car heading up the mountain and shouted out 'Polizei! Misty, leg it!', and grabbing my plate I scarpered into the back function room to hide.
That was the last straw.
The family had just finished eating and before the manageress could explain the father went up to her and asked for the bill as they'd decided to leave earlier than planned, although they didn't say why.
My passport arrived the next week and the hiding from Das Polizei came to an end, although I still got teased by the locals about the amount of bodies I had hidden in the cellar and asked if I'd added to my collection.
But if any of the family that stayed at that hotel are reading this, it really was all perfectly innocent.
Honest.

Wotcha groovers! I hope today finds you all rested and tickety-boo after the weekend?

Personally, I discovered a joy in life that after many years of doing my damnedest to ignore, has now found me tearing through the TV guide in search of my next fix.

The cause of this new interest?

This person.

It started on Saturday night when I was waiting for Total Wipeout to start and the Ireland/France Rugby game was finishing. I suddenly realized that there's a lot to be said for a load of very fit men running around in extremely tight shorts and I found I couldn't stop staring watching the game.

And then He hoved into view.

Sadly later in the pub the Ex-Partner-In-Crime informed me that He was married with baby daughter, but a girl can dream, eh?
Anyway, I'm sure he wouldn't mind having a small rubber duck balanced on him if I ever get to meet him. Would he?

Oh, and before I get back to my little daydream, your choices for tomorrow's Choose-O are -

The Accused.
Polizei!
Need for Speed.

And don't forget to tell me how you're doing while you're down there, akay?

Oh frabulous, beautiful, wonderful day! Not only has my migraine gone (thanks to the power of loads of spleep and migralieve) but my fabulous, excellent, gorgeous new whizzy camera has arrived, hurrah!
To say I am a happy bunny is an understatement, and once again I would like to say a huge 'Thank You' to everyone who made it possible for me to be clasping it safely in my paws, and Coralee, you are an angel! *mwah!*
Seriously, I keep getting choked up with happy tears whenever I think about it!
I'm just waiting for the battery to charge up, but it should be set to shiny very soon and then I shall be clicking away at everything and anything again!

Unfortunately by brain is not concentrating on anything but getting to play with my new toy, so while I'm doing that how about playing a rousing game of 'Mornington Crescent', this time in the style of Shakespeare.
I'll go first, see you in the comments box!
Oh, and I hope you all have a fantastic weekend, X

Apologies.

Lack of post today due to Worst Migraine Evah.

Even the sound of the 'puter made my head hurt and so I have been hiding under the duvet and dosing myself up with Migaleve.

I think I'm over the worst now, and normal service* will resume again tomorrow.

Please stand by. If anybody wants me, I'll be in the darkened room underneath the duvet, akay?

PS. Also, please carry on with the comments for the Caption Competition as they're all absolutely hilarious!

ttfn,

*mwah*

*Whatever the hell 'normal' is.

Woohoo, yet another Double Entendre Day, and what better way to keep warm during this snowy spell than giving it all you've got and filling my box to capacity, eh?

I mean seriously, the UK gets hit by about four inches of snow and the whole country grinds to a halt. How pathetic is that? Now c'mon, a few years ago terrorists tried to bring London to it's knees with a load of bombs, but very shortly after, there were all the Londoners, united in that old war-time spirit getting along as if nothing had happened and saying 'Up yours, ya bastards' whilst sticking two fingers up at the bombers.
Christ onna bike, if Al-Qaeda get hold of a snow machine, we're all doomed.

Anyway I digress. It's time for this week's Caption Competition so without any further ado, your photo for today is -

There's a choccy digestive going for every entry and a mug of hot chocolate available should I get me a 69.

So, get in there!

Skirting the Issue

Some moons ago I went out for an evening with a wonderful friend of mine. I hadn't seen her in ages so I was looking forward to having a good old natter about what we'd both been up to in the past three years or so.
Anyway, the only downsides to the evening were that A) being the only one who could drive I was the designated driver, and B) my friend was (and still is) one of those girls who is incredibly gorgeous and no matter how hard I tried to scrub up, all the chaps would flock around her leaving me sitting on my own feeling like a wallflower smelling of manure.
And so we set off to find a decent pub. Easier said than done, as the first place we tried was totally empty with as much atmosphere as a thermos flask, the second was packed to capacity with drunken aussies, the third had music playing so loud we couldn't hear ourselves think and the fourth didn't sell wine.
Now, while testing each pub, my friend had had a glass of wine (except the last one where she'd had a vodka) while I'd had a soft drink and by the time we found a pub where we could sit down and hear each other without being vomited on by Australians, my dear friend was nearing the 'one over the eight' as they say.
So, the pub we'd chosen was somewhere near Goldhawk road and as well as having a bar downstairs, had a large area upstairs with plenty of seating, so after we'd bought our drinkies (I decided I was going to have just the one glass of wine) we headed off up the stairs to find a seat.
Now, this is the part of the story where you have to pay attention, else the whole thing won't make any sense, akay?
As I knew I'd be driving, I'd chosen to wear by best 'skinny jeans' but my friend had decided to wear a a slip of a silk top and really beautiful long velvet skirt; dark red and reached almost to the floor. Along with her natural very good looks and stunning outfit, as usual all eyes were upon her where ever she went, while I trailed behind feeling I should be ringing a bell in case anyone bumped into me.
So, we're at the bar, just bought our drinks, my friend is now rather pissed tipsy, and we're heading up the stairs; her in front and me behind with both of us carrying a drink in one hand and a handbag in the other.
I realized I'd left my change on the bar and quickly dashed back to get it and then went to catch up with my friend.
Alas, she was rather more drunk than I'd realized.
As she walked up the stairs she managed to catch the hem of her shirt with her shoes and with each step her skirt (which btw had an elasticated waistband) had got closer to the ground until by the time she got to the top of the stairs, her skirt was about three paces behind her.
I tried to call out to her as I realized what was happening but she didn't hear me and made her entrance into the upstairs bar semi-naked and still clutching her drink.
I dashed after her as quick as I could, grabbed the skirt and tried to wrap it around her but too late; everyone in the upstairs bar had seen her and if they weren't staring with eyes and mouths agape were laughing their ducks off.
My dear friend still hadn't twigged what was happening until I finally got through and told her that she was sans the lower part of her outfit.
Mind you, having the skirt wrapped around her made for a really quick exit, I'd never seen her move so fast, but sadly I didn't have time to drink my glass of wine that I'd been so looking forward to.
We've never been back to the pub again either.

Q. What's white, fluffy and brings the south of England to a standstill?

A. Polar bear with a nuclear warhead.

And if you can't get one of those, two inches of snow will also do the trick. Gods alone know why. Every year it's the same; panic, confusion, and severe lack of public transport.
But best of all, I get to go outside and make snow bunnies and take loads of clickage, rah!
So if you'll excuse me, I'm now going to dig out my thermals and grab my camera which is set to shiny, but while I'm off playing, please to choose your entertainment for tomorrow.
Your Choose-O choices are -

The Accused
Polizei!
Skirting the issue

I'm going out now. I may be sometime...

BTW, how were your weekends?

Additional, 18:57 hours. My Snoobunny!
Isn't he cute?