Natures answer to Prozac!

I did venture into landscape gardening once.

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

So I threw the towel in. 

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

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

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

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

And that was it. 

I was completely hooked. 

Gardening was the lifelong partner I had been looking for.

Mother’s Day?? WTF is THAT??

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

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

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

  

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

I don’t have memories of happy summer holidays.

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

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

My childhood consisted of being very different.  

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

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

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

Makes no wonder that I’m single eh? 

Happy Fucking Mothers Day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

 

Tramp 

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

  

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

  

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

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

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

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

  

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

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

  

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

  

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

  

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

  

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

  

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

  

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

  

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

  

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

  

Then I walked away, he called me a teaser.

  

‘You’re on a mission kid.’ 

  

Yo, he’s a tramp.

The Perils of Moving Home for the Zillionth Time.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mary Rose of Social Renting

In times to come, I will be classed as one of the lucky ones.

I was fortunate enough to pick and choose my ideal property without it costing me a bean – apart from my weekly rent and other taxes.  . . .  Oh, and 13 years waiting.

 

I was able to secure a home without having to sell a kidney, debt myself up to the eyeballs and complain til I was blue in the face about the shit state of the ‘private property’ market.

And for that I am extremely grateful to Social Housing. 

So IDS  . . .  Come and try throwing me out if ya dare, you mutha fucka. 

The world’s a windscreen...

I like driving.  It opens my eyes in many ways. 

I see dirty little paedophile men in scummy little work vans ogle schoolgirls in uniforms. 

I see dirty cunts picking their noses and eating the fucker. 

I see old codgers who don’t know what fucking day it is let alone what the stopping distance for 50 metres is in wet weather. 

I see Slovakians regularly trying to break the Guinness Book of World Records for how many fat people you can get in a twoc'd Lexus with a smashed back axle, three wheels and no handbrake.

I see people who have problems distinguishing a falling sheep sign from a big fuck off stop one. 

I see people who think those flashing orange lights are something you only use on the motorway when you’re out of petrol and who think that the rear view mirror is merely an implement to put on ones lipstick or ensure ones eyebrows are on fleek. 

And I also see that wing mirrors are no longer instruments of safety, they are merely there just to give a mighty high five to the cunt in the passing white range rover with the personalised twat plate.