Monday, 14 May 2012

Turn Around, Bright Eyes

Now then.  I’ve been neglecting you.  I can see you there, in your electronic eyries, peeping and cheeping with your gobs agape, just itchin’ for me to hawk up a great glob of regurgitated words into your little trembling beaks.  Of course I won’t desert you again.  I’m a good mother.  Just look how well Baby Mumps turned out. 

After the initial period of mourning (oh those long nights of Blue Nun through a bendy straw and weepy wanks to Fanny Cradock) I am over the monkey.  I’ve done everything the magazines tell you to do – I’ve given myself a snazzy new look (‘Disco Prospector’), had a ceremonial burning of love letters and sentimental trinkets (I chucked on a few final demands while I was at it, and all those letters from the council about the Garum pit – never waste a good bonfire) and I’ve even signed up for something called Zumba.  I am a new woman.  

So my life has become a giddy whirl of Glamorous Stances and Executive Business.  My Filofax is full of cocktail parties and conference calls and at any given point in the day, I have literally just stepped out of a salon.  I’m pretty much Huddersfield’s Fanciest Lady. 

There comes a time when one must put away childish things and move on in life.  Obsession is the finest hobby you can have, but you must never let it get to the point where you are slumped in a cold bath slugging warm gin crooning Total Eclipse of the Heart to the memory of an imaginary monkey. 

Unless, of course, that’s all part of the fun.

P.S. Perhaps Zumba was not quite such a good idea.  Apparently they expect you to be on time AND appropriately dressed AND relatively sober AND they don’t take kindly to smoking AND they don’t want to see your Hornpipe, thank you very much. 


  1. Warm gin? Oh, no, no, no, that would be taking things too far.

  2. Tepid gin, no slice, flat tonic. I call it 'The Bonnie Tyler'.

  3. I tried ordering a Bonnie Tyler last night whilst watching Eurovision. Everything went wrong.