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.