Janey's Blogs - January 2008
Wednesday the 2nd of January 2008
Husband and I spent the New Year bells watching TV and reading quietly. I had just come off stage at Glasgow Jongleurs. I was on Scottish Television on their New Year show called From SR to Lavvie Heid - it was all about famous advertisements.
We inadvertently clicked on and I saw my big fat face staring back at me and he quickly changed channels!
So we spent New Year watching Star Trek Voyager instead.
Ashley went out partying as all 21 year olds should do.
I fell asleep and her dad waited up for her. She came home at 5am all giggly and drunk.
This morning I went into her bedroom and she wasn’t there. The bedroom did look as if it had been burgled, but that’s normal for Ashley’s room.
She has her own bathroom; it has no windows and is very cool and quiet, so I tried to check in there for her.
The door stuck and I realised she must be on the floor behind it. I didn’t panic as she often goes in there for a sleep on the floor if she feels ill. So I knew she must have been sick or hung-over.
Ashley has often slept on her bathroom floor since childhood.
She seems to feel happy in there with her head jammed between the toilet pan and the bath!
The door creaked open and one wee white hand reached out! It was like a scene from a hostage rescue.
“Are you OK, baby?” I whispered to the dark crack in the door.
“Yes, I have vomited up a steak pie and bits choked me, mum,” she huskily answered.
She sat up and pulled the door open to let me in.
There was her Flintstones duvet and pillow all crumpled on the toilet floor; she looked like one of those poor illegal immigrants who hide in a box to get to freedom.
Her make up was streaked all down her face and her hair was tied up for vomiting purposes in a big bunch on the top of her head.
So I took a photo of her on my phone as it was too good an opportunity to miss and will be a great blackmail tool for the future!
Vodka and champagne may not pass her lips for yet another year!
Friday the 4th of January 2008
I am an impatient cow
I have a mole on the top of my shoulder at the back of my neck. I insisted that I would finally get it seen to as it has been itchy lately.
I made an appointment with the doc for 5pm and ran across the street in the driving, freezing snow and sat in the Georgian drawing room that is my doctor’s waiting room. I was ten minutes early for the appointment.
I sat quietly and flicked through the People’s Friend magazine which is aimed at pensioners and blind or mad people to read. There is always a lovely wee watercolour of some Scottish landscape on the cover and loads of adverts for furry boots and novelty hot water bottles. It always features a short story about some middle aged pretty woman who is divorced and finds a swarthy man on Scafell pikes on a walking holiday. They end up in love and live in a cottage overlooking a lake.
I was quickly becoming brain dead… the clock ticked loudly and everyone was getting taken before me into the doctor's room and I was becoming impatient.
I am unable genetically to cope with waiting rooms. My mum was the same and my dad is even more tetchy about queues than me… I start bouncing off the walls if made to wait.
So I flicked through another Peoples Friend magazine and read about some other middle aged woman who met a dark handsome man on a painting retreat in Cornwall… for fucksake, who writes this shite? I flicked through recipes for scones and bakewell tarts and watched the clock hit 5.20pm. I took three phone calls on my mobile and the receptionist came through and told me to turn the phone off!
“Look, I am taking work calls and I should be out of here by now,” I shouted back.
People tutted and I ignored them and read a recipe for a light Victoria sponge.
The clock hit 5.40pm and finally my name was called.
I jumped off the seat and ran to the door; the doctor was new to me. I had never seen this female before, but I didn’t care. I needed to get out of there as soon as possible.
I walked in and before she got to her desk I ripped off my scarf, pulled my jumper down and said: “I have a mole, is it dangerous?”
She had this annoying habit of saying, “Hmm... Hmm,.” as you speak!
So I ignored her annoying tick and said. “It’s been itchy.”
She said, “Hmm... Hmm,” through my words.
“OK, you need to stop saying ‘Hmm Hmm’ every time I talk.” I snapped. "Please look at the mole."
She looked at it and both of us was still standing as I didn’t want to sit down I had been there long enough for her to speak over me and as far as I was concerned that was fucking long enough.
“It’s not a melanoma…,” she spoke.
I pulled on my scarf and said: “OK, thanks, bye,” and left her room.
She came running after me: “Would you like it frozen off?”
“It is dangerous or cancer?” I stopped in my tracks in the hallway.
“No,” she answered.
“Then no, bye,” I shouted as I walked into the frozen air as the door slammed behind me.
I was so annoyed at having to wait ages to get seen and all she could do was make noises as I spoke, I didn’t want a chit chat… no wonder she takes so bloody long with her patients.
I was raging with frustration at having to sit in that place for nearly an hour in that I went stir crazy. I stomped along the road and two young teenage Asian boys stopped me.
“Do you have cigarettes?” the taller one asked.
I was annoyed at being stopped in the cold. “Yes I have loads in my bag, why?” I asked.
He looked at me in astonishment. “Well, can I have one?” he added.
I looked at him and his wee Asian friends all staring at me in anticipation.
“No,” I said and walked off.
“You fucking whore!” he shouted.
“A whore with loads of cigarettes. Get it right, you fuckwit,” I laughed and carried on home.
I may not have a cancerous mole, but this smoking may give me a cancer of a different kind.
I need to lighten up and stop being grumpy.
Wednesday the 9th of January 2008
Ashley is NOT dying and we are getting a dog
My daughter Ashley fell a few weeks ago when her trainer caught on the escalator of the underground tube train station and hurt herself. At the time it was just her knee that seemed to take the blow. But since that first week of December when the fall happened she has had chronic back pain.
She convinced herself she was dying of liver or kidney failure or ‘back cancer’ as she called it. This morning we went to the doctor (who has since stopped saying mmm…mmm…over the top of me speaking) and it seems Ashley has muscle spasms due to the fall and is now on anti-inflammatory drugs to help ease the pain.
Meanwhile, we have convinced husband that we deserve to own a puppy.
He is distraught as he never really liked having animals around. He is not cruel to them; he just isn’t as enamoured by pets as Ashley and I are.
So we were all sitting on the sofa and Ashley talked me into getting a dog as husband made a whole orchestral arrangement of noises like tutting and huffing.
As I got more eager Ashley blurted out: “I am not even going to get a fucking sea monkey out of this conversation am I?”
“Yes, we are getting a wee dog,” I assured her.
Husband went foetal.
“Can we call it William Shatner?” she pleaded
“Yes, we are getting a dog and calling it William Shatner,” I assured her.
So I am going to cat and dog home to get a puppy or a wee dog.
Watch this space.
Thursday the 10th of January 2008
It was the year of punk that I met Louis Philippe. Well, we never actually met in person; he was my foreign pen pal; he lived in Portugal and we wrote to each other ever week.
I loved the letters. He cheered me up.
I am sitting on the beach today with my father. He owns a fishing boat and my sister and I help him on weekends. I am enjoying school and hope to get into the hotel business when I am older. I liked your photograph; you have a nice smile and lovely curly hair. Please write back.
Your dearest friend,
I thought Portugal was as far away as the moon back then. Living in the East End of Glasgow and lying in bed listening to God Save The Queen Sex Pistols style. Reading his wonderful letters made me feel somehow detached from the poverty and dirty bed sheets that smelt like bad eggs.
I never really told Louis about my true home life.
My mum is drunk but not too much as she couldn’t really afford to get totally pissed as she needed money to pay the fine after she got caught stealing the electricity.
Today I only had one slice of blue mouldy bread and a sausage that was clearly off as it tasted sour and my budgie died of hunger yesterday. I couldn’t afford bird seed and, though I tried to give it breadcrumbs, it refused to eat them. I feel so guilty that pigeons outside my window can still live and flap about yet I couldn’t even keep a wee bird alive. I buried it outside in the back garden and cried with shame. Then a cat tried to dig it up and I cried again.
No, I couldn’t write that, so I wrote…
Life in Glasgow is good. The weather is roasting hot and tar on the pavement outside melted and stuck to my sandals. I got quite burnt around the shoulders and my face hurts a wee bit. Hope you are happy in Portugal. Tell me your news.
Louis sent me a picture of himself. He was really handsome and looked all broody and dark haired. I wished I had a boy like that in Glasgow who was interested in me but, even at sixteen years old, I knew it was hopeless to assume any man would like me. I was flat chested, very plain looking and possessed hair so curly that the knots had to be cut out. I ended up looking like a clipped Shetland pony.
I continued my correspondence with Louis for months after that hot summer of ‘77 and, later that year, I started work. I bought boxes of bird seed with my wages and just kept putting the boxes under my mattress. I wasn’t sure why I kept buying them but they did mount up.
At night I dreamt about the wee blue bird that lay stiff on the cage floor. In my dreams, I would pile box upon box of seed into the cage. The seeds rattling through the thin metal bars would finally cover the bird and bury it.
Years fled past in a flurry of jobs and boyfriends. Louis and I kept in touch and Louis got married and I finally found a man who liked me just enough to put a ring on my finger.
I was 43 years old when I found Louis again.
It was in the strangest of circumstances. I was sitting in a hotel lobby in New York. I had been there on a working holiday. As a stand-up comic and radio broadcaster, I was working the comedy clubs in Manhattan and reporting back to the UK on Radio 5.
On the final morning of my trip, I was waiting for my taxi to take me to the airport at 6.00am. There was a man opposite me in the coffee bar who was also surrounded by luggage. We smiled at each other as we both reached for the sugar sachets. The café was empty except for us and the waitress.
We got chatting.
“I am from Portugal,” the tall, dark haired man said; he had flecks of grey at the temples and a nice face.
I was really tired and slightly bored; I wasn’t really up for chatting and swapping lives with some tourist.
I smiled and tried to think of anything I knew about Portugal: “I had a pen pal many years ago in Portugal,” I said as I sipped my coffee and watched the main door for the cab driver to arriveThe man smiled: “Well it’s a really big place, so I don’t think I will know her.”
I laughed and warmed to his sense of humour.
“Actually, it was a boy. He was called Louis Philippe. I can’t believe I even remember his name.” I shut my eyes and thought of the dark haired boy with big shy smile. My mind wandered back to the summer of 1977 when I used to rip open the blue air mail envelopes and I even pictured my wee blue budgie.
The man looked at me with curiosity, and then he laughed out loud and started wagging his finger at me: “That’s a joke - a good joke! How do you know my name?”
I stared at him: “I am sorry. I don’t know what you mean.”
He pulled out his passport and flicked through the pages and then thrust it at me: “My name is Louis Philippe.”
I sat bolt upright in my chair and looked at his passport and stared at his face. There was no way this could be the same person. my mind raced and tried to make sense of what was happening.
“Did you have a pen pal in Glasgow, Scotland when you were 16?”
The man sat there staring at me, his hands shook slightly and he sat up close and looked at me.
“You are Janey?”
“Yes, I am!”
I laughed out loud.
Just then, my taxi driver arrived.
We hugged and laughed, still both shocked at the amazing coincidence of the meeting.
“You always wrote nice letters and you were very cute, Janey. I spent years wondering what happened to your life. Are you happy Janey?” He spoke quickly as I grabbed my luggage.
“Yes, I am Louis. Are you happy?”
“Things have happened Janey, but I am good in my life and am going home to Portugal today to see my son.”
We stared at each other and, somehow, it just seemed right not to say any more.
And I walked off into the snowy streets of New York.
Saturday the 12th of January 2008
Husband decided that besides doing my yearly tax shit he would completely empty the contents of every single piece of paper work that I own and dump it the middle of the living room and sort it out. Window cleaning and washing down the huge Welsh Dresser and all its contents was included in this activity.
As you can imagine I was over the moon with suicidal feelings!
I do things bit by bit and slowly - he attacks chores the same way George Bush went into Iraq. The living room resembled downtown Baghdad after crack addicted violent soldiers had been on a rampage
There was no piece of floor untouched by the mess and nowhere to actually step when I woke up. The sound of that fucking shredder had been going all morning, he shreds everything. I think he has just shredded my entire life. He then shredded all his own stuff and that included paperwork going back to when we owned a bar together.
My husband would have been a valuable asset to President Nixon if only he had been old enough and American enough to be involved in US politics. This man leaves no trace of his existence; I swear if he dies I will be hard-pushed to prove he was born!
“Go through all of those old diaries and see if there is any valuable info you need to keep,” he shouted orders.
I looked at the shredder and wondered if it could take his big fat head.
So there I was washing windows, cleaning small ornamental cups and knick-knacks and trying to work out if this is actually grounds for divorce. I hate this stuff.
There is an upside. He discovered amongst the many bank statements that people owe me cash…Whoopee!... Now that’s a by-product that I love.
Sometimes paperwork and countless invoices get on top of you and you can get buried amongst it all and lose track.
That’s the great thing with e-mails; you can just delete them and keep the ones you need. Real paperwork is fucking shit and I hate it.
Ashley was clever enough to fake sleep and hide in her room which, meanwhile, does look like it has been bombed. Fuck knows how she finds stuff in there…it scares even me. Her filing system is akin to just throwing her paperwork high in the air and wherever it lands is where it should be.
I am sure when she gets her own place she will be found starving and dying beneath DVDs, letters, university work and underwear.
Husband is now in full Aspergic mode and, as I write this, he is continually holding up tiny pieces of paper and asking me to ‘Kill or Keep’… I am off to get drunk… and, trust me… I don’t even drink. I may not be here in two days time. I am going to strap a canoe onto my back and fake my own death.
Tuesday the 15th of January 2008
A Best Friend
Every woman has a best friend. One who has seen her through dodgy perms, fake tan dilemmas and pregnancy scares. A good mate has seen you through your very worst days and been witness to your finest moments.
My mate Monica is that person. She lives in London and has a really demanding job: she owns her own PR Company. Her life is a constant whirl of TV studios, book launches and nibbling niceties in upmarket eateries.
Monica is PR to some of the most famous and celebrated chefs and restaurants here in the UK and abroad.
We met up in London for a drink recently and invited some friends to join us.
“Remember the time you peed yourself outside The Groucho Club?” she laughed and everyone at our small gathering stared at me in horror. Monica has a way of picking out the highlights of any anecdote; that’s why she is good at her job. Except, this time, she wasn’t doing my image any favours.
“Tell the whole story properly - it makes sense if you explain it better!” I shouted as the people in the room stayed silent and continued to stare at me. I will be forever known as the weak-bladder woman in their eyes.
Ten years ago, when she was working as a lawyer’s assistant in London and I was an open spot who crashed on her couch doing the comedy circuit, we had the best of times. Running from comedy gig to late night bars were amongst some of the best days in our lasting friendship.
Both of us were way too old to be still ‘working out what we want to do’. I was in my mid-thirties, married with a child and had decided to become a stand up comic rather late in the day to be honest; and she was in her early thirties and had been through a succession of jobs and ill-fitting boyfriends.
That particular night, I had been heading to a gig in Soho; my bladder was full and grew to the size of a small scatter cushion, I thought that if I could hold in a baby I was sure I could hold in a wee.
Monica and I started walking along Dean Street when, for some bizarre reason, we both spotted a tiny hobbling baby mouse running past our legs at the exact same time. We screamed and screamed much in the same way we would if the devil himself had decided to chase our skirt tails. It was a tiny wee creature, but we got hysterical. Flapping hands and squealing like banshees.
People stared, yet we screamed more.
Then we stopped the screeching and started laughing. At that point, Monica was throwing her head back howling with raucous laughter and then she suddenly stopped, stared at me with huge bulging eyes and vomited up a great splash of yellow sick all over the pavement.
It was the sudden change from laughter to puke that made me fall about laughing, I could not contain myself, my ribs hurt and I peed myself. I am not proud of it, but I did. The piss soaked my jeans and ran into my shoes.
We then headed on to my comedy gig. We had no time to stop and get cleaned up. There was me with a damp urine-soaked crotch and Monica with yellow sick all tangled up in her long red curly hair. The bits of vomit hung onto the tendrils like ugly Christmas tree ornaments. We stank badly, but still kept laughing. People were looking at us both. We must have looked a sight. That never stopped us from giggling.
I did the gig, told the story of what had just happened, showed the audience my dark stained jeans, pointed out Monica’s vomit splattered hair and left the stage to resounding applause.
Who needs material when you can actually say in all honesty: “Something happened on the way to the gig...”
Friends can come through the toughest of times, especially if one of them has pissed themselves in public and the other can recall the story in front of strangers.
Friday the 18th of January 2008
Cardiff is freezing
I flew to Cardiff yesterday at tea time and the wind nearly whipped me off my wee fat ankles. The flight was fine, but on arrival at the airport I exited and headed for the taxi office and the strong wind picked up my thick hair that in turn gave my face whiplash.
I checked into my lovely 5 star fancy hotel that I am staying in (it’s my birthday on Sunday and I deserved a treat) and the smarmy nice people in top hats looked at me like I was Little Nell on a begging trip.
There is no way you can look good with snot dripping out of your nose and mascara running down your cheeks from the wind that got me yet again from the short walk from taxi to swishy door entry.
I had decided to book myself in for a facial but when I went down to the wonderfully expensive beauty therapy spa, the girl who offered me my facial looked very young.
“Are you here for business?” she asked when we discussed times and prices.
“Yes, I am performing at Jongleurs comedy club,” I told her.
“I don’t know where that is as I am too young to go to clubs; I am seventeen,” she smiled.
“And I am not letting you near my skin,” I thought to myself. How much training in beauty therapy does a 17 year old have? Especially at these prices. So I ditched the skin regime idea and silently wondered where a girl could get chocolate at this time of night in the isolated hotel in Cardiff’s docks.
I peered out of the window and saw debris being whirled around at the Bay and decided against going out. I stepped into the restaurant feeling hungry and ready for dinner, but the menu looked very expensive. Now, I am a regular posh nosh diner, but I only wanted a snack. I did not want to pay £50 for two pan-seared prawns arranged on top of each other, sitting neatly on one single potato slice with a truffle shaving artfully placed in the centre of a huge white plate.
They did have a bar snack option and I munched down a big sandwich and that set me fine for the night.
So today I have to venture out into Cardiff city centre to get some shopping done and get ready for my Cardiff Jongleurs gig tonight. I may get blown away…it looks scary out there…talk later.
Sunday the 20th of January 2008
Here I am at 47
I woke up old in Cardiff. I am 47 today and I have waited so long for this birthday, as I have finally reached the age my mammy died at, but I suppose I will have a big celebration at my 48th birthday next year as that’s when I will have outlived her!
And I must outlive her!
The weekend in Wales was lovely though the wind howled and it made me come to the conclusion that Wales is the only country called after the noise it makes….whhooooooooooooowhhooooooo… the wind battered off my fancy five star hotel's glass walls.
I had THREE glass walls in my bedroom and they wobbled all night long as the wind shook them.
The shows were great and all the staff at Cardiff Jongleurs are always so nice and helpful; the Welsh audience were so welcoming.
So here I am sitting in Cardiff Airport and people around me actually want my table. "Can you move to let us all sit down together?" the skinny tall blonde woman asks.
I lift my eyes off this keyboard and see about twenty people including kids crowding me, I look behind me and see LOADS of free fucking tables and wonder why they need MY seat?
“There is a whole area of seating over there,” I pointed. “I have my laptop out and plugged into this socket and bags spread around me can you possibly all move to one of the 70 empty tables behind me?”
They all looked at me like I had bitten a child in the face.
“Well, these are the seats we always sit on” an old man snapped at me.
“No you don’t, you don’t always sit here, coz if you did, I wouldn’t be on your lap. Look, here’s the deal. It's my birthday today and you are annoying me... Go away!” I hissed and yet again pointed to a swathe of empty tables and seats at my back.
This confused him and his party of friends. They moved on and let me get back to writing this sentence. Honestly, I fucking attract nutters in their hordes.
So that’s been my day.
Wednesday the 23rd of January 2008
Prague and Beyond…
Well, I arrived for my well-deserved break; husband and I are staying in the MOST amazing apartments right in the city. I swear to God, its luxury, I have never seen this calibre of serviced flat outside London! The huge ornate gated entrance leads up to a wonderful high-ceilinged flat that is so modern and has a balcony!
Prague is just beautiful; the weather is cold but clear and we have been walking everywhere. At this time of year there are no stag nights or crazy crowds.
I have been trying to stay on my fat-free diet, which is proving really fucked in Prague: its fatty meat or nothing, I am living on apples.
The downside of today is I just heard that Heath Ledger the famous US actor has died. I really liked his work and even met him once at the BAFTA awards in London; he was such a star to people who just came up and spoke to him. Ever so approachable.
I hear it’s a drug death, whether that’s true or not, I feel for his family.
I will be in Prague till Saturday and it seems my laptop is playing up, so I will not be able to keep up the blog till I get home on Saturday.
Saturday the 26th of January 2008
The Bumpy Flight Home
Well, I am a frequent flyer but that flight back from Prague was horrific; I genuinely thought it was going to fall out of the sky near Glasgow.
There have been really horrendous winds in Glasgow and as the flight approached the landing, the plane felt like King Kong had a hold of it and was shaking the bloody thing furiously. I almost shit myself.
Just as we started the descent, the pilot told us that the wind was too strong and he had to climb up again to avoid the wind and we might have to be diverted to Edinburgh!
Just then, husband leaned over and said: “You should see the air hostess. She is vomiting into a bag.”
“Why the fuck did you tell me that? Now I am really scared?” I shouted over the noise of the plane being rattled in the wind.
“Why? She might have eaten something dodgy in Prague,” he argued back.
“Or…she might be thinking we are going to crash!” I screamed. “So shut up!”
“She might be pregnant,” he shouted loudly enough for the poor woman to stop vomiting and scowl at him. I could have clubbed him to death with my shoe…fucking nutter that he is.
He then sat there as the plane was tossed about in the sky and gave me at least seven good reasons why the woman was throwing up as I was trying to get my IPod into my ear, I know you are not supposed to listen to any electronic devices as the plane lands, but I didn’t want the last words I ever heard to be him annoying me, I would rather have listened to Prefab Sprout sing.
“You aren’t supposed to have that in as we land, it could interfere with the landing,” he hissed.
“Fuck right off, who is going to stop me? The pregnant, food-poisoned, scared air hostess?” I shouted.
I didn’t put the IPod on as I knew it was wrong, but the deafening effect the ear pieces gave me helped.
Finally the plane did land after we were seriously buffeted by strong winds and the plane had see-sawed for a few minutes.
The good news is I really enjoyed Prague. The place is awesome and I cannot praise enough the people at Prague City Apartments.
We stayed at the Karolina residence and it was just beautiful, I don’t often endorse companies on my blog, but these people were awesome and the flat was huge!
They even let me check out at 9.00pm at night as my flight was a late departure.
Go check them out if you are ever going to Prague. Who needs a hotel when a one bedroom spacious flat is so cheap and so well appointed?
Sunday the 27th of January 2008
Part Time work
My daughter Ashley reminded me of the time three years ago when she worked for a temping company. She really hated the job especially when she realised she was assigned to a senior citizen home. Not that she hates old people, but she really preferred office work and nothing that would involve cleaning up after people.
So Ashley decided to do something really politically incorrect and morally disgusting - she pretended that she had learning difficulties and suffered from a really low IQ. She also affected a limp. She let this be known when she arrived at the place. She explained she could do menial tasks and was great at taking orders, so she was given a job washing the dishes in the vast kitchen.
She didn’t want to deal hands-on with the elderly people as, basically, she doesn’t like touching people she doesn’t know or handling their dirty laundry.
Ashley popped in her iPod earphones and happily carried on cleaning cutlery in the big dish-washing machine. What she discovered was how patronising people are to folk who have learning problems.
“It’s just as well you are pretty, Ashley, because there is nothing going on in your wee head and you will get nowhere in life,” one woman would often say as she chatted to my over-educated daughter.
Ashley would smile and the woman would pinch her cheek and pat her head.
She also told me that people openly speak about your disability in your company. For example, one older nurse said to the gathered staff when Ashley was eating lunch: “You know, years ago people like Ashley were put in a special home and left to rot; nowadays they let them into society. But she is good at washing dishes and can sing really good. Have you heard her singing away when she has her wee music box in her ears?”
“Yes, she can sing and she is really good at working the dishwasher as well. It’s a real shame she is backwards because she will never get a man.”
Ashley would sit there horrified that people could say that in front of anyone!
Ashley would go round the old people’s home giving out cups of tea and singing away to the elderly folks. They all loved her, though one old woman sussed there was more to her and said to her one afternoon: “You are smart, very smart and you don’t really have a limp, nor do you have learning difficulties, do you?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Ashley said in her happy smiling way.
“I watched you texting on your phone. Your thumbs moved like lightning and you were reading a big heavy book out on the lawn near the hairdressing room last week.”
Ashley gulped and said, “Yes, you are right I can’t lie, I am only pretending, I really don’t like working here and my mum said I had to get a seasonal job, but I really have issues with touching people and their stuff and the other women are so annoying it's great that I don’t have to chat to them. I am sorry if I have offended you and I will go tell the matron now. I don’t mind getting the sack actually.”
The old woman laughed loudly and replied: “No, I won’t tell, its OK. You really cheer us up singing to us and your happy nature is wonderful, I don’t mind.”
Ashley felt terribly ashamed and sang all day with people in the lounge.
She worked in the old folks' home for another five weeks until her contract ended and the women bought her a big colouring book and glittery pens, which they presented to her in front of the residents. Ashley actually loves colouring-in and took the gift gladly! Though there was one old woman sitting there laughing her pants off as Ashley thanked them all and sang The Great Pretender and left with her lovely gift.
Ashley told me he gained such respect for people who do have learning difficulties and will never underestimate or patronise them ever in her lifetime and she had learned an amazing lesson, even though it was born of deceit.
Monday the 28th of January 2008
Where Am I?
I sometimes get so bloody confused as to where I am supposed to be from one day to the next. Life is busy just now and travel plans are being changed daily. I am off to London tomorrow for a few days and then back up and down for the rest of February.
To make matters worse I am trying to stick to a diet, now that’s the worst thing when I am travelling as I tend to eat when I am bored and sitting around in airports.
Last week in Prague I can’t believe how much food they offered that I just couldn’t eat; everything was so stodgy and deep fried, that these people could actually be Glaswegian!
So I turned into a small pit pony and lived on apples and carrots the whole trip.
I am so determined to lose my fat belly, I saw myself naked in a mirror from behind back in Cardiff and I was horrified as to how I looked. When did I become the fat lardy lady? I cannot bear to see myself naked for at least a year; the shock was too bad from the last attempt.
I have rolls of fat that ripple down my bum and the backs of my legs! I look like one of those seaside postcards from the 1930s, it’s awful to accept.
So here we go again with the diet. You know you have reached an unacceptable size when you are NOW the weight you were when you were nine months pregnant with your baby. That’s wrong!
So February is full of travel and diets. I am going to the BAFTA awards in London soon and my guest this year is the Glasgow Airport hero John Smeaton. He was the guy who intervened when a terror attack hit Glasgow Airport last year.
He was also a guest on my chat show at the Fringe last year and he is an all-round lovely bloke.
I need to look nice and try not to resemble a fat rolly-polly woman on the red carpet.
March 6th is my Glasgow Comedy Festival show at The Garage in Glasgow at 8pm and I am doing a wee slot at the Terence Higgins Charity show on Sunday March 9th at Oran Mor on Glasgow’s Byres Road.
Both shows still have some tickets available; click on my website on how to buy if you are up for it and let me know if you are coming so I can say a special hi to my blog friends on the night?