Beetrooty Buffoon Bludgeoned!

I have had a good week. A very good week. Spring is sprung. Sap is rising. Mornings are light and filled with birdsong, days are balmy and soft, Easter is nestling just around the corner and best of all . . . .

POMPOUS PILATE WAS WALLOPED BY A PARENT THIS WEEK!

Oh, the joy!!!

I know this sounds dreadful, but I can't help but feel that the patronising prig has been cruising for a bruising for quite some time. To make matters worse (or better, depending on your point of view) the handy fisted culprit who dealt the knuckle sandwich was not a tatooed, no-necked, Neanderthal dad. No, it was a woman of the female gender. One of the school's most vocal and chavtrocious mums.

The scrunchied harridan has never liked Pompous. She feels he picks on her eldest son, little Dirk. This week Dirk was simulating gay sex in the playground, so Pompous banned him from a football tournament. This was the last straw for Dirk's put-upon mother. Earlier this term Pompous had cause to speak to her about her language at a football match. He took the stone-washed crone to one side and smarmed with Blairite sincerity.

Pompous: you know, I UNDERSTAND, I really do. I know what its like when you have no money and times are hard. I know you’re doing your best, I know what it’s like to struggle. I've been there too. I've been where you are. But that’s no reason to take it out on other people.

Mum of the Year: (in an accent as thick as the school's mashed potato). Ere, ya bastard. Whaddya mean like? Whaddya sayin’, that I’m some kind a black minger who dinnit have owt? Ere, just cos I dinnit live in a big posh hoose like youse divvint mean my children divvint have owt. Youse can fuck off ya fat cunt.

So, this week, in the quiet of Pompous's plush office Mum of the Year decked the beetrooty buffoon good and proper. I do not think he was badly wounded, although as she does sport a chunky sovereign ring on each finger (dart player chic), he was lucky not to loose a tooth. Obviously, his pride was wounded and no one is supposed to know of the incident. BUT, my teaching assistant is good friends with the mum in question, and was told the whole sorry tale. I have chosen to share it with a couple of 'discreet' colleagues, so I am confident that by Monday, the staffroom will be fizzing with the scandal.

As my Aunty Margaret always says, 'you always see your day.'

That is Easington Colliery karma.

Hetty Wainthropp Investigates

I am despondent at the imminent demise of Mad Men, I have scoured the internet for news of when Season 4 will be launched. I love snuggling down in bed, with tea and toast and Mad Men. So much to savour: the gleeful portrayal of the social mores of the 60s, Don Draper's morally ambiguous yet quiveringly attractive alpha male and of course Joan, warm, witty and wanton. She is my favourite charcater of all. The perfect balance of snippy bitchiness, cool efficiency and motherly fussiness. A satisfyingly rounded female character in so many ways.

So, what on earth would be a suitably compelling, stylish and razor sharp alternative? Well, Hetty Wainthropp Investigates, of course. Maybe I need to balance all that Mad Men simmering sexuality with a bit of wry, gentle Northern humour. I was just reading the blurb on the back of the box.

'Hetty Wainthropp, a sprightly, intelligent pensioner, wakes on her 60th birthday and decides to become a private investigator.'

That got me thinking. It is a 'big' birthday for me this year (a mere 2 months away now). What, in the name of Patricia Routledge, will I wake up and decide? What life-changing decision awaits Miss Underscore on the morning of the 18th May? Probably just the usual: poached or scrambled?

Romantic Update

Well, my date with C&C, the Senor Boldon look-a-like financial advisor, is set for my Easter hols. He is taking me for afternoon tea, he has obviously picked up on my love of old fashioned and genteel rituals . . . and scones.

However, other Senor Boldon alarm bells started ringing earlier this week. And, no, it was not that I discovered C&C had a swarthily irresistible younger brother. C&C was speaking of his addiction to homo-erotic wrestling (or, 'Oliver Reeding', as I call it). He was twittering on about giving up carbohydrates in order to improve his performance. No potatoes. No bread. Dear God! Senor Boldon was like that - existed on a monastic diet of stir fry. I am not sure I could be with a man who didn't cherish the sensual pleasure of food. Life without creamy mash? Goose fat roast potatoes? Butter-laden toast? Is it really worth living?

He also told me about a previous woman he briefly dated. He ended things after she called him up at midnight, whilst driving drunk and screamed at him, accusing him of wanting

'a whore in the bedroom and someone to serve cucumber sandwiches to your mum.'

That has been playing on my mind. It troubles me. I mean, how deviant exactly is the cove? Should I be worried? What kind of kinky cad requires plain cucumber sandwiches? Everyone knows the sandwiches in question should contain both cream cheese and cucumber.

Fame at Last!

Poor Hetty, she has ripped one of her claws out and is hobbling around on three legs. According to the vet she will have to sashay out on her walks with her paw in a carrier bag, like some skanky, meths-soaked vagrant. Here she is, getting a bit of comfort and sympathy from Hester the cat. They are basking like lizards in the spring sun.

Did you you may notice my windowsill propagators - full of herbs and vegetables? I don't have an inch of windowsill space in the whole house. I am embracing the whole Good Life ethos, although I do feel more of an affinity for dry, spiky, snooty Margo than irritatingly twee and bouncy Barbara.

I wonder, will I ever find my Jerry? Will I ever lead a suburban married life? Will I host dinner parties in a Pucci print kaftan, dishing chicken chasseur from a hostess trolley? Probably not. Damn it. My Lazy Susan is still in its cellophane shroud. Maybe I could use it for the lurchers' Gravy Bone biscuits?

Now, I was fizzing with excitement to discover that Hetty and Cyril were both featured in Grumpy Bobby's blogspot this week. Bobby is a legend in his own lunchtime, he writes a blog about his shenanigans in our local park and about all the homeless dogs he helps foster. Hetty has been longing to get her pic on Bobby's blog for ages. And she is indeed on there, staring up at me, looking for food (actually, the only bit of me that is featured appears to be my arse). But, Cyril was the star of the show, the crazy, hairbrained hound features in many pics. You can check Grumpy Bobby's heartwarming blog out here.

http://johnspawz.blogspot.com/

Yesterday I took delivery of the painting I bought at a local gallery a few weeks ago. It is called 'Dogs by the River'. I think it is quite lovely. Full of my favourite autumnal colours: ochres, plums, browns and greens. I'll hang it in my sunny kitchen, I think.

An Easter Egg as Big as The Ritz

I am sorry. I have been so neglectful of my blogging commitments. The truth is that I have been overwhelmed with work at the School of Hard Knocks. So, I shall take a few moments to sit with a cup of tea and a toasted, buttered hot cross bun to catch up.

Happy Anniversary Parma Violet Tea

This blog's anniversary completely passed me by. I was hoping I'd reach 200 posts by the 8th March. Sadly, it was not to be. I started the blog as a way of distracting myself from the pain of a broken heart (sorry, that was a very blowsy and Cartlandesque statement, but true, nonetheless). Also, because I enjoyed writing nonsense to Rochester, and I knew that I would miss that ramshackle creative process. Looking back at the blog, I am pleased with it. Some bits make me uncomfortable, but I am not going to change or edit a word.

Hotel Chocolat Easter Egg

Just a recommendation for anyone who has never indulged in a HC Easter Egg, they truly are magnificent. I am currently on a strict budget. I have recently embraced Aldi, and strangely find there is much joy to be had there. But, there is no way on God's green earth I will be satisfied with a 89p Aldi chocolate bunny this Easter.

The HC Eggs are utter decadence. They are cocoa nib behemoths. The egg itself, well, the shell is so thick that even Janet Street Porter would struggle to get her gnashers around it. It is CRAMMED with divine chocs. I find myself looking at the HC website nightly, trying to decide which of the beauties I will treat myself to this year. £22 is a lot to spend, I know. I could build a Chappie mountain with that! I have to say, I like the look of the one at the top of this page very, very much.

SOHK Quote of the Week

This week my class has been studying life in rural India. They were enthralled to hear about a little girl who lives in a village nestled deep within a forest. They gasped to hear her home did not have running water or electricity and that she walked 20 kilometres every day to get to school. Their task was to make a big collage picture of the girl's forest home: the house, the trees, the animals. I was very pleased with their work. I was perplexed when I looked at Red Bull's collage (Red Bull is a totally frenzied ne're do well with ADHD. His mum lovingly 'prepares' an explosive breakfast cocktail of Ritalin and Red Bull for the little scamp every morning.) Anyway, in his collage, Red Bull had crammed the Indian girl's house with electrical appliances: televisions, lightbulbs, microwaves and washing machines.

'Red Bull, did you forget, the house in India has no electricity?'

'Na, I dinnit forget. Why look like, nowt is switched on!'

The Body in the Library

I had a rather stressful Saturday last week. I was perkily dusting to Jonathan Ross when I made a rather grim discovery. Behind the sofa lay the stiff, lifeless body of Moses. I refer, of course, to Moses the cat, NOT the biblical patriarch. I'd had Moses 13 years and recently he had become a little doddery and senile. But, what a dilemma. What does a single girl do with the dead, decomposing body of a beloved pet?

My first trauma was actually picking the furry corpse up. That required gardening gloves, a large gin and a Laura Ashley pillowcase as a shroud. (I soon re-thought the pillowcase, it was Egyptian cotton with a lovely hydrangea print. I loved Moses, but there are limits!) Eventually steeled myself and courageously wrangled the little fella into an Aldi bin bag. But what then though? As much as I cherished the thought of burying the mite under a rose bush, I knew that would never work. Not with two digging-daft lurchers in the house. All the vets were closed. So, I am slightly ashamed to say that in the end, Moses was dispatched in the wheelie bin (thankfully the bins are emptied early on Monday morning). I know his final send off lacked a bit of gravitas and solemnity, but it was all I could think of to do!

The return of the Fanny Rat

I have decided on Easter as the time when I will meet C&C (the Cary Grant impersonating financial advisor). It does seem like rather a long way off, but the end of term is a frenzy of assessments, marking and report writing. Plus it gives me time to get comfortable with the idea. I just need to make sure I don't break into that Hotel Chocolat egg until after the date. I do want my curves to be more Joan from Mad Men than Nurse Gladys Emmanuel from Open all Hours.

But, I was thrown into a fanny rat induced quandary last week. I had an email from Rochester. Apparently the Geordie gigolo now has a proper job. He is a salesman of some kind. I am not sure what he is selling, he was rather vague on this point: it could be clothes pegs door-to-door (whilst dressed as some David Essex-like, swarthy pikey), it could be drugs of course (he was boasting that he is now 'loaded') or it could be something more mundane, like double glazing or conservatories. Who knows? He claimed to work very late nights, which did make me ponder whether he was working in the sex industry, as some kind of South Shields rough trade. I really have no idea.

He also shared that he was now performing his maudlin, death-themed poetry every night at some beatnik club, no doubt whilst bedecked in a black polo neck jumper and beret. Rochester's poetry makes Sylvia Plath seem like Pam Ayres. He catalogues his twisted haikus into themes on his blog. The themes are as follows:

Death

Cancer

Death and Cancer

Depression

Incarceration

Passive aggression

Suicide

Vegetarianism (he is not a fan)

If you are looking for a sweet and tender couplet to write in a Mother's Day card, or to win back a lost love you will not find it in Rochester's poems.

Anyway, it was the last line of the swarthy rogue's email that confounded me.

'Will be up next weekend I reckon - if you fancy a pint x'