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Pithy And Pointed

Where does one begin? The highlight of my week was the delivery of a new frying pan. No ordinary frying pan you understand, but a LeCreuset stainless steel, triple bottomed frying pan which arrived in its own giant box, delivered by our rather nice postman. Are we still allowed to call them postmen? He is a man and he delivers post so I’m hoping I’ve not transgressed any kind of gender bias rubicon in describing him as such.


Oooh! I too took delivery of a new frying pan this week - life imitating art, or art imitating life, or something like that anyway! Rock and stroll baby!



I have resisted the trend on Linked In to pop your gender pronoun in the name section as I think it’s pretty fucking obvious I’m a woman and need to be described as such and anyone who is unsure shouldn’t really be connecting with me. Christ, I’m probably going to be

cancelled for saying such heinous things. I have the audacity to describe myself as a woman and not a menstruating person which appears to be terribly fashionable amongst a certain class of North London Guardian readers who have somehow hijacked our media.


As I no longer menstruate do I now have to describe myself as a person who previously menstruated?


I was asked this week if I wanted to appear on a panel for an international sales conference under the title “Women in Sales” and I politely replied that I was happy to appear on the panel, but the first thing I would be saying was, “let’s talk about people in sales because women don’t need any special treatment because we happen to have a womb.” The nice chap thanked me for my thoughts and backtracked stating that he’d decided to drop that particular heading for the conference. Job done.



No, the frying pan, in all its beauty arrived safely without Ever Patient Husband noticing and therefore not questioning how much it cost. I did buy it from the joint account so if he ever sees the website and the amounts concerned, I have some of his favourite whisky at the ready to sooth his fevered brow.



Its a lovely frying pan...

As friends will know - I have a huge collection of Le Creuset saucepans, casserole pans, strangley heavy gratin dishes etc all in a subdued tone of retina scarring orange. Subtle, just like me...


Its a bit like our hair cuts ladies isn’t it? There I go again, blithely assuming that men don’t spend the GDP of a medium sized nation on their hair and that only women do that. Sorry chaps, if you do spend such ludicrous sums on your hair every ten to twelve weeks then I apologise.


I as illustrated by my very messy hair, absolutely hate going to the hairdresser. It irritates me having to make small talk with someone with whom I have nothing in common and paying them the equivalent of the gross national debt to cut my hair in an unimaginative style that I low key hate until it grows out...

My next haircut and colour is firmly secured in my diary on the 21st April, not only is that because it’s my best mates birthday (I am lucky enough to have two bezzie mates and it’s her birthday, not Pip’s), but because I shall be reunited with Janet into whose capable hands I have entrusted the style and colour of my greying locks.


After years of telling my hairdresser what I wanted, and failing to look anything like the image of lusciousness I had in my head, I gave up even trying and told Janet that I was leaving it up to her. She was delighted, probably breathed a huge sigh of relief and cracked on with colouring and cutting my hair so I no longer resembled Animal from the Muppets.


I like Animal, he's my favourite Muppet....


It will be her job on the 21st to restore me to my former self in preparation for seeing the world again in three dimensional form.


As the people of the United Kingdom continue to enjoy getting little pricks in their arms, I spent some time this week reflecting on how crazy we’re all going to go when we are officially let out of the traps. I say officially, because as we all know, despite the best efforts of the bubble police, that the vast majority of us have said ‘fuck it!’ I’m not following THAT (select whichever of the list of lockdown rules you have chosen to break) rule!


I have been alarmingly conformist through lockdown, however even I have had enough now and am beginning to consider ways in which I can see all my special people without getting them into trouble!


What I love in particular, is the way the British people have collectively pretended to adhere to the rules and then quietly and unassumingly continued to flout them. From my neighbours who are in their seventies sneaking off to visit grown up children and grandchildren to the kids running freely round the park hugging, sneezing, coughing and spluttering over each other whilst their parents chat with other parents and pretend not to notice. All the way to ‘I’ve got to drive 400 miles because my friend needs me as she’s/he’s having an operation/funeral/breakdown......fill in the blank.


Thanks for that though Bec - I really did feel better after your help.


It does have to be said that I appear to live in a particularly conformist street, everyone has been very well behaved and I do get 'assessing looks' about the amount of support bubbles I seem to have - they are just jealous...


The media would have us believe we’ve all been complying like good little brainwashed citizens with no capacity for independent thought, but we know otherwise and in fact the data is out regarding how utterly useless track and trace was because only one in five people actually self isolated when they got tagged. Most people gave false names and numbers to venues and ‘forgot’ their phone so they couldn’t be traced. What the governments failed to realise is that we all lie and we all don’t like complete strangers having our phone numbers.


Or being able to track us (even though they said they didn't...)


This fills me with hope. People are not in fact sheep. They do not all fall for the headlines or have succumbed to fear. People have googled the stats and decided to assess risks for themselves and their loved ones. Most people have realised they’re not going to die, neither are they going to get long Covid because when they Google the stats they realise the chances of either things happening are tiny. You’re more likely to die in a skiing accident than of COVID.

I am unlikely to die or injure myself in a skiing accident because I don't go skiing - so it would have to be a random skiier falling out of the sky and landing on me were I to be injured or squished to death by a skiing accident

Although Lovely Friend is in hospital awaiting surgery after managing to ram a 3 inch bit of wood through his hand whilst helping me dismantle the shed yesterday - so stranger things than me being landed on by a very confused skiier have happened.



Which leads me nicely to today: sitting in the sunshine in my back garden looking at Eddie who is basking in the warmth, as I write the blog and listen to my neighbours illegally enjoy time with friends ~ the strange lady who bears and uncanny resemblance to Wee Jimmy Cranky and who currently proports to run Scotland seems to think Scottish COVID needs an additional two weeks of not hanging out with your family and friends and a further two weeks of not going to the pub outside. Who knew?

I do find the political version of Wee Jimmy Cranky a bit difficult to tolerate..




Will I be calling the bubble police? No. I shall, instead enjoy the sound of quiet rebellion happening across our wonderful nation amongst people who have never given into fear, bully boy tactics or bowed to any strong arm government. We remain free in our heads. People, remember that. You are in charge of your own health, your own destiny and your own household. It’s a precious thing, protect it with all your might because as we’ve seen, it can be taken from you at a moments notice right from under your nose.


On reading this section all I can imagine is Bec, tartan clad, daubed with woad wafting her pen above her head in a slightly aggressive manner shouting 'freedom' at the top of her voice. I have been laughing at this for a considerable length of time now. I need to get out more.

The bubble police....


My Incredible Grandson needs that bubble police vehicle!

The bubble police are without exception nasty snitches who have too much time on their hands and an inflated sense of their own importance. I hope, that as the hags I know would say, they get back 10 fold what they have sent out.


Dear reader we leave you this week with the thought that the strange light in the distance isn't an oncoming juggernaut about to mow us down but actually Bec with a combined pen and torch effort as purchased from one of those strange magazine inserts one gets occasionally with the Saturday Times leading us out of lockdown and towards happy socialising!


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