Scene 1: My first date with Senor Boldon

A rare treat for you all today; a scene from Parma Violet Tea (the movie).  In this gentle vignette I cannot say how frequently 'nothing happens'.  But I suspect it is more than twice.

So, let me tell you about Senor Boldon.  I met him online at mismatch.com. We exchanged emails for several weeks. His messages had an endearing and almost erotic economy to them.  (I am rather eccentric, I find grumpy and morose men terribly attractive).  He would always 'sign off' with a sweetly reticent 'night, night you'. Senor Boldon was my first ever experience of interweb dating.  Many have argued he should have been my last.

After many, many emails and texts the bounder started mooting a possible meeting.  Face to face.  In the flesh.  In person.  Naively it never occurred to me up until that point that we would meet. Textual intercourse is all well and good, but at some point, you actually have a 'date'.  That came as something of a dizzying shock to me. But, I really liked him and so agreed (nervously) to meet. This is the scene of our 'first date'.

So, the setting of this romantic assignation is a dingy Northern pub on a gloomy, drizzly Tuesday afternoon.  A shaven haired man has burrowed himself into the darkest corner of the room.  He is scowling intently into the middle distance.  He is dressed entirely in black.  Other than this troubled soul and a lone, brassy, gum-chewing barmaid, the place is completely deserted.  

Suddenly, a creature of rare and unearthly beauty floats into the room. Sorry, I couldn't help myself there!  I'll start again.  Suddenly  the door of the pub opens and a jittery girl dressed casually in jeans, a cardigan and ballet pumps tentatively enters.

SB (rising uncertainly from his murky lair): Err, are you Miss Underscore?

Miss Underscore (squinting, is this really Senor Boldon, he looks so much older than anticipated) Yes, yes.  Senor Boldon, I presume.  (I did indeed always call him that).

SB:  Drink?  Gin I expect?

Miss U:  No.  Lemonade. Driving.

SB:  I thought you were within walking distance.

Miss U: (Self-consciously running hands through hair, ability to speak in coherent sentences completely gone) Ah.  I am.  Raining though.  Hair.  Frizz.  Leo Sayer.  Nightmare.

(Senor Boldon skulks to the bar and returns with drinks.)

SB:  So.  This is it then? At last.

Miss U:  Yes.

( A silence so leaden and deathly ensues that it is possible to hear baby mice snoring in their nests beneath the bare floorboards.)

SB: Am I what you expected?

Miss U:  Yes. (pause)  Me?

SB:  I suppose so.

(Suddenly Senor Boldon's phone rings.)

SB:  Aw fuck. Sorry, I have to take this.  It's work, I should really be there now. We're being audited. Hello.  What?  The McFlurry machine.  Errr. . . switch it off and then switch it back on again.  If that doesn't work bang it with something heavy.  (He hangs up, clearly irritated)

Miss U:  You were saying. . .

(Phone rings again.)

SB:  (gruffly).  Hello.  Fucking hell.  Gherkin sell by dates?  For Christ's sake I don't know.  Sort it out will you.  I'm busy.

Miss U:  This seems to be a bad time?  Do you need to get back?

SB:  No, no. . . where were we . .

Phone rings again.

SB:  Jesus fucking Christ. Hello,  (through gritted teeth), no, I have no idea what our projected sales are for Filet O' Fish next year.  (Furiously hangs up, takes long drink of beer and glares at no one in particular).

More silence ensues.  Along with the baby mice snoring it is also now possible to hear the beating of a hummingbird's wings on the east bank of the Mississippi River.

Miss U:  (Desperately searching for witty anecdote) I saw Nick Cave in a hairnet once.

SB:  (Incredulously) You  saw what?

(Senor Boldon's phone beeps.  A text message.)

SB: Holy mother of God, what now?  Hang on.  Oh, it's my brother.

Miss U:  Which one, sane or insane?

SB:  Sane.  Most of the time.  It's Rochester. The one in down South.  I told you about him, didn't I?

Senor Boldon puts on his glasses to read the message and groans.

Miss U:  Bad news?

SB:  His missus has just chucked him out.  He's been having an affair.  Jesus.  (he shakes his head)

Miss U: (indignantly) What a cunt!  Didn't you tell me his wife had just had a baby?

SB:  (wearily) Aye.

Miss U: You have a most peculiar family.  Your other brother is the sociopathic policeman, isn't he?

SB:  Aye. He's a twat.  I had a drink with him last night, as it goes.  He just sat there, in silence, grinning at me like an idiot, like some kind of masturbating monkey. I felt like punching him.

(More silence.  It is now possible to hear the polar ice caps melting. Very, very slowly.)

SB:  Listen, I'd better go.  It's been nice meeting you, Miss Underscore.

( Our socially inept characters walk dejectedly out of the pub and into the car park.  Neither looks at the other. )

Miss U:  (sadly) Oh God.  I am sorry.  I am terrible at this.

SB  (rather tenderly) Fuck.  Don't feel bad. I don't think I'm any better.

(After weeks of fluttery anticipation, the meeting has come and gone, and the time for parting has arrived.  There is a barely detectable sexual tremor in the air, as our characters look intently at each other for the first time.)

Miss U (rattled, fumbling clumsily with car keys and almost tearful)  Well, OK, bye then.

Miss Underscore arrives home.  She sadly walks to the kitchen window and looks out on the rain slicked trees looming in the darkening evening.  Her phone beeps.  The display shows 'Senor Boldon'.  She opens the message.

'That was an odd moment in the car park.  Did you sense it?  I really wanted to kiss you. You are incredibly sensual. Shall we try this again?'

Parma Violet Tea Who's Who

Miss Underscore

(Moi). Rather insecure, romantically and emotionally autistic Primary School Teacher. Sometimes quite funny. Often quite sad. Would love to write a book, but is generally too lazy to even write a cheque.

Likes:

Imagining she lives in a 1950s Miss Marple novel, lipstick shopping, quoting Dorothy Parker, sleeping, chintzy floral bedding, good hair days, teaching, flea markets and falling in love with tatty, hound dogs (of the 2 and 4 legged variety), afternoon tea.

Dislikes:

Her inabilty to ever choose the right man, her unrelenting self-doubt, perpetual social anxiety and failure to master an even passable Bearnaise sauce. Poverty (her own, not so much worried about starving African children or UK pensioners huddled by a one-bar electric fire), Pompous Pilate (her officious, blustering buffoon of a Headteacher), Winter.

Natural Habitat:

The classroom, the Bobbi Brown make-up counter, Betty's tearoom, Bamburgh/ Alnmouth beach. Between the months of November-April Miss Underscore will probably be found in bed. She is indeed half-woman, half dormouse.

Identifying Features:

An intransigent and slightly tiresome devotion to ballet pumps, cardigans, Mad Men eyeliner and pink-brown lipstick. Has recently had to sell all her jewellery on EBAY to pay household bills, consequently she now only has one decent necklace: an Alex Monroe peacock feather pendant, and wears it CONSTANTLY. Pure Grace perfume (in the days when she could afford such luxuries).

Rochester (also has an alter-ego called 'Don')

An ex/ current dalliance (not sure which). Louche, dark, sarcastic and shambolic. 30% Walter Matthau, 30% Nick Cave, 30% Tommy Cooper, 5% Ted Hughes, 5% The Littlest Hobo. Currently a seller of double glazing and a self-styled 'healer' of lesbians with his charity 'The Missionary Position'. Perpetually late. The only reliable thing about Rochester is his eternal unreliability. Swarthy rogue.

Likes: Gin, fanny ratting, the words 'cunting' and 'gosh', taking brooding pictures of himself in the Lakes, lesbians (he is obsessed with lesbianism), performing death and cancer themed haiku poetry, meat and Minstrels (of the chocolate, not black and white variety).

Dislikes: Commitment of any kind, being punctual, vegetarians, Guardian reading social workers (he used to be one), keeping promises, giving compliments.

Natural Habitat: A scuzzy bar with a pool table, a bleak Lakeland hillside, bed.

Identifying Features: eyebrows that resemble two fat weasels, his mumbling Geordie voice, which is so low that it is generally only heard clearly by dogs and dolphins, rather lovely brown eyes.

Senor Boldon/ Dr Stir Fry/The Burger Baron.

An ex. Elder brother of Rochester (I know, I know). Top Gear and stir fry obsessed executive of McDonalds. Suffers from extreme OCD. Rather dour, misanthropic and monosyllabic, although would occasionally come out with an utter jewel of a one-liner, such as describing his middle brother (the only one of the Brothers Grim that I did not become romantically involved with) as a 'masturbating monkey'.

Likes: Routine, order, timetables, cars, stir-fry (EVERY twatting night), holidays in Spain (EVERY twatting holiday), a pint (same time, same place EVERY twatting night), silence, Margaret Thatcher.

Dislikes: Spontaneity, cheerful people, Burger King.

Natural Habitat: See his timetable for details.

Identifying Features: A scowl, but on the rare occasions he does laugh, he becomes almost endearingly Sid James.

Son of Satan

An ex. A twat. An impregnator of german girls (whilst in a relationship with me). Did have a terribly useful career as an electrician when I met him. Gave that all up to study for a PHD and become a professor of 'Contemporary History' (an oxymoron if ever I heard one). That was the beginning of the end for us, as he stopped fixing light fittings and started using the word 'discourse' on a regular basis. Passive aggressive, vegetarian cunt.

Likes: The sound of his own voice, living up to the cliche of the the fanny ratting university professor (he recently married a student 19 years his junior).

Dislikes: Fidelity, Paul Weller's 'Style Council' years.

Natural Habitat: Lurking in bushes behind the University humanities buildings, chatting up fresher girls with quotes by Raymond Williams and Susie Orbach.

Identifying Features: Affected cockney accent (to emphasise his humble working class origins), big nose, granddad-collared linen shirts, general aroma of felafel and sanctimony.

Madam Noir

Shopping obsessed, potty-mouthed recruitment consultant with a black sense of humor and a generally pessimistic view of the world. Recently discovered the joys of moss mumbling and lesbianism. Madam Noir, like Miss Underscore, is an orphan.

Likes: Bizarrely, naff 1970s comedies such as Hi de Hi, Sorry and Butterflies. Lives for music. Also loves New York, shopping, cheese scones, single malt, whippets, the colour black.

Dislikes: Christmas, New Year's Eve, all other drivers on the road (her road rage can be TERRIFYING).

Natural Habitat: John Lewis.

Identifying Features: Pale, ghostly complexion, uniform of leather jacket, jeans, black top and Jo Malone perfume.

Pompous Pilate

The most tedious, arrogant and self-obsessed man on the planet. Currently Head Teacher at The School of Hard Knocks (primary school situated on our town's bleakest, most crime-ridden sink estate). Like many male headteachers is rather lazy, full of grand plans and ideas but can never be bothered to implement them. Highly patronising, speaks only in obtuse edu-jargon soundbites. 

Likes: Talking. Bullying. Hiding in his cosy office, well away from the violence and chaos of the classroom and playground.

Dislikes: Listening, working, dealing with the frankly atrocious behaviour of some of our most 'challenging' kids and families.

Natural Habitat: Assembly: he gets to pace up and down the school hall, pontificating to the entire school. The staff meeting: again, a forum for the oaf to lecture and pontificate.

Identifying Features: Bald, fat, beetrooty complexion, ill-fitting suit. Yorkshire accent so thick you could grout tiles with it.

Aunty Margaret

90 year old Aunty Margaret is a tough-talking, arch, witty, salt-of-the-earth matriarch with a heart of gold.

Likes: Gossiping, telling stories about her beloved husband, Barty, who died 20 years ago, going to church, child-minding for the entire village, Mr Kipling cakes, milky coffee and (rather decadently) Chanel make-up.

Dislikes: Snobbery, pretentiousness and ALL of Miss Underscore's boyfriends, 'Hmmmm! I wouldn't trust that one with a bonny dog!'

Natural Habitat: Aunty Margaret looks like she should be knitting next to a guillotine somewhere.

Identifying Features: Resembles Les Dawson (when he was dressed as a woman). Outdoors she is never seen without her head scarf and raincoat (even in July). Indoors she favours a nice cardigan, slippers and American Tan tights combo.

Hetty

Lovely, intelligent, gentle and graceful RSPCA rescue lurcher. Half Scottish Deerhound, half Greyhound. Found tethered, starved and close to death on an allotment. As one very astute commenter on this blog once remarked, Hetty looks like she was drawn by Quentin Blake.

Likes: Running, watching TV, lounging on the sofa, going to the beach, marmite on toast, chasing squirrels, wearing jaunty pink collars, flirting with Bruno the German Pointer (he's a wrong 'un, the swarthy rogue of the Backhouse Park set, but the girl is smitten), bossing her brother Cyril about.

Dislikes: Staffordshire Bull Terriers, the postman (and indeed, any men of the male gender who enter her domain), baseball caps, fleas.

Natural Habitat: The sofa, the bed, the beach, the park, Minchella's ice cream kiosk. Anywhere she can run like the wind.

Identifying Features: Long, lean and elegant, Hetty has the tatty, regal look of a down-at-heel aristocrat. Hetty sings when she is happy. She has Dennis Healy's eyebrows (I am not sure how she aquired them, EBAY probably).

Cyril

Another RSPCA lurcher. Cyril is a cross between a Bearded Collie and a Greyhound. If Hetty was drawn by Quentin Blake, then Cyril was certainly drawn by Walt Disney. Daft, clown-like, clumsy and highly vocal, Cyril is utterly bonkers and completely brainless. Obsessed with food and chewing, the hound costs a twatting fortune.

Likes: Raiding the kitchen counters for food and then vomiting all over expensive household items (Laura Ashley rugs, Macbooks, sofas). Chewing: especially shoes and remote controls. Gnawing through the gussets of his owner's knickers (this is one of Cyril's more worrying habits, he is an obsessive knicker-ripper). Also likes running with Hetty, stealing food from the cats, chasing birds, wallowing up to his oxters in mud and going to the Hair of the Dog beauty spa for pamper sessions (although, at £28 a time, that is a luxury that his mum can no longer afford).

Dislikes: Brown and black labradors of the male gender: for some reason they all treat him as a sexual play thing. A trip to the park, for Cyril, very often turns into a scene from Brokeback Mountain. Also has a deeply ingrained fear of rubber ducks.

Natural Habitat: The kitchen, the mud-bath, the park.

Identifying Features: You will hear Cyril before you see him: he 'talks' constantly: barks, growls, mutters, grumbles. Cyril has a long, flowing coat of silver and grey. It is usually caked in mud.

Normal Service to be Resumed. . .

Hello. I am sorry. I've had a tumultuous few weeks, for so many reasons. I am now on Christmas leave from the School of Hard Knocks and hopefully will find the time and inspiration for daily updates.

I left you at a time when things were at a perplexing and ambiguous state with Rochester. The situation has been clarified. I am seeing him soon. That is all I can say for now. If you recall, our relationship was always a little strained when we realised I had slept with his brother. Yes, you read that correctly. And no, this blog is not sponsored by Jeremy Kyle. It is true though, that revelation was utterly shocking. Today I asked Rochester (via text) whether he and his brother ever 'discussed' me. His response did make me laugh.

'Not really. He knew that I saw you. It was all a bit too weird to discuss. Plus, we both knew deep down that I was the better catch. I did not want to embarrass him.'

I have to say, I am childishly excited at the prospect of seeing the rogue. Truly, I can't wait.

I shall sign off with a picture of my rather minimalist Christmas decorations: some wooden lights and a white poinsettia. As a primary school teacher I have been up to my oxters in glitter and tinsel for weeks. At home I like to keep things a little more simple.

Blaguards, Miscreants and Womanisers (BMW drivers)

Life truly does deal blow after blow. I've spent the summer bank holiday weekend:

• Window shopping in Newcastle with Madam Noir. A lovely experience (especially as cheese scones were involved), but in order to cheer me up she perkily asked me what I would buy if I was not facing imminent bankruptcy. On hearing her question my mind was instantly filled with the beating wings of beautiful things: Bobbi Brown shimmer bricks, Lola Rose beads, cashmere jumpers, Barbara Pym novels, rose petal meringues, bottles of damson gin, a new car free of dog drool (thanks Cyril) and rust. I was rendered speechless by the enormity of the question. It only served to depress me. All I bought today was an M&S pork pie. And even that was a disappointment.

• Hiding in bed. It is cold here. I cannot afford to switch on the heating. Last winter my utility bills were £200 per month. So, like one of those balaclava wearing pensioners featured on Panorama, perpetually huddled in front of a one-bar electric fire, I am spending my time cocooned in bed, betwixt flannel sheets and my beloved electric blanket. It is where I am now. The only grit in the oyster is . . .

• The ongoing failure of my mission to teach the dogs how to make me a cup of tea and serve it to me in bed. This must be possible. It MUST be possible. I hate having to get up and make my own tea. If brainless bozo Nick Clegg can run the country, if Katie Price can write a bestselling novel, if NASA can send chimpanzees into space, then surely to God a lurcher can be trained to brew a decent cup of Yorkshire.

• Two depressing, utterly depressing disasters this weekend: my dishwasher is broken, so I am facing a future of domestic drudgery. Oh, and someone/something has smashed a pane of glass in my sitting room window. I can only assume it was ANOTHER attempted break-in. Either that or one of Sunderland's obsese and drunken seagulls (they dine on Greggs' pasties and brewn ale) has crashed into my beautiful art deco stained glass. I can't afford to get it fixed. I have had to make my own temporary repairs with cling film and sellotape. I can't bear the thought of another break-in. I want to move. Back to the 1950s preferably.

• I visited my elderly Uncle Stan yesterday. It was torturous. I endured several hours of listening to impassioned tirades about immigrants, gypsies, muslims, single mothers and gays. Oh, and capital punishment, of course. Capital punishment for immigrants, gypsies, muslims, single mothers and gays. During his hate-filled monologues Uncle Stan positively shakes and fizzes with venom, usually with his flies still open. Thank heavens for the calm and sensible influence of Aunty Margaret, who kindly agreed to accompany me.

And now. I have saved the best till last. I had some rather shocking news of Rochester this weekend. I told him that I had seen his brother, Senor Boldon, recently. The elder Brother Grimm pulled out in front of me. (I am referring, of course, to a vehicular rather than a sexual maneuver.) I made some throwaway comment that,

'I was pleased to note that the Lexus Lothario at least indicated first, which is more than many of his sort do (I refer of course to ex BMW drivers).

Rochester's response? 'I have just bought a BMW. What does that make me? Uncle Stan sounds okay to me.x'

DEAR GOD!!! Rochester driving a BMW! Well, dear reader, I had to point out the error of his ways. This was my response.

'Whoa there bonny lad. That was 3 sentences you wrote there. Pace yourself now. I’d hate for you to get repetitive strain injury from all that typing.

Do you really want me to spell out what is wrong with a BMW. Are you serious?

I discussed this very issue on my blog some time ago here

Basically, BMWs are driven by arrogant, sneering, middle-aged Tory business men who are lousy in bed. Or is it lousey in bed? No, lousy ( I meant inept, rather than lice-riddled). BMW drivers are a complete cliché. Have you really got one? Whatever next, a Jeremy Clarkson leather jacket and perm and 22 year old girlfriend?

The equivalent behaviour for a woman to owning a BMW? Well if I started having Botox injections, got a spray tans, wore ‘fuck me’ shoes and hung around in wine bars drinking Chardonnay and feeling the arse of every teenage waiter who passed, then that would the equivalent to a man owning a BMW.

Also, why are BMWs made without indicators? My Ford Focus has indicators, and it was a quarter of the price. Then, there is also that irritating BMW advert about how they manufacture ‘joy’. (vomit) I thought you were a tortured misanthrope at heart? Surely you should have been on the look out for a car manufacturer that bases its campaign around gloom, misery and despair. Possibly a Volvo? They are much beloved of the suicidal Swedes (the accoutrements for gassing yourself come fitted as standard with a Volvo). I can’t take this in, Rochester. This is harder to come to terms with than that picture of you looking clean-shaved in a suit and tie.'

He has not replied to that yet. Maybe I have gone too far. Especially as I added a footnote, wondering whether he would be able to take a BMW dogging. (It surely lacks the requisite seediness).

Ah, I did laugh today in Fenwicks. Whilst browsing in the cosmetics department, trying on Bobbi Brown lipsticks and attempting, surreptitiously, to give myself a free manicure at the OPI counter, I noticed that you can now get your eyebrows 'threaded' there. Why anyone would want to have their body hair attended to publicly, in the middle of a heaving department store is a mystery to me. Especially when the demonic-looking ladies make you sit in a dentist's chair, attack you with a cat's-cradle of dental floss and leave you looking like some sort of red-browed baboon. Well today, there was a man in the hot-seat, getting his brows done.

'Obviously a man of the female gender.' I noted to Madam Noir. 'I wonder if Rochester gets that done now he is a BMW driving, suit-wearing metrosexual.'

We silently gave the matter some thought.

'Blimey. With his monobrow they'd need dental floss as long as the Great Wall of China. The shop floor would resemble the grooming section of Crufts!'

A day trip to Bowes Museum

I decided to go on a good old-fashioned day trip today. I went to Bowes Museum in Barnard Castle. It's a place I've passed many times, but never actually visited. I suppose I was craving a bit of genteel elegance.

Barnard Castle is a sweet little market town surrounded by the most beautiful verdant, voluptuous countryside. The English countryside in early summer is heaven on earth. I really enjoyed my drive there, I could smell wild garlic in the hedgerows and the frothy hawthorn blossom was gently falling all around. Truthfully, I would love to live somewhere like Barnard Castle. The high street was full of traditional butchers and greengrocers with ramshackle piles of colourful fruit and vegetables. Oh, it all seemed a million miles away from the School of Hard Knocks.

Well. Bowes Museum was lovely. I drifted around in a floaty maxi dress admiring the portraits of jowly majors mounting mighty steeds. And, I loved this trio of mysterious and melancholy ladies.

I was very taken with this little whippet sculpture.

And another whippet in this picture. Maybe I should have my portrait painted with the lurchers.

My favourite part of the museum was the costume room. This had everything from Tudor dresses to 1960s mini skirts. I loved this 1950s dress (do you notice the corset and bra too)?

But this elegant 1930s dress was the most perfect thing in the whole museum, for me.

There were also some lovely furnished rooms.

But, the thing that Bowes is most famous for is its glorious silver swan. It is an automaton, and it comes to life at 2pm every day. I didn't actually see this. By that time I was settled in a quaint little fish and chip shop, devouring the most divine haddock, mushy peas and bread 'n' butter.

Speaking of the contrast between the gentle romance of Teesdale and the crime and grime of the School of Hard Knocks, I am yet again facing a dilemma. Two interesting teaching jobs have materialised. The first is in the little mining village I grew up in. The second is in a picturesque village just outside of Sunderland - the village that is home to my misanthropic and eccentric ex Senor Boldon (Rochester's brother). My dilemma is this: do I continue to dedicate my career to the SOHK, and accept its Bleasdale-esque bleakness and Pompous's infuriating buffoonery. (If you forgive the 'fingers down throat' platitude, it is where I can truly make a difference. ). Or, do I go where pastures are greener, cheeks are rosier and life is generally sweeter?

Of course, if I opted for Senor Boldon's stomping ground then I could always encounter the bounder at parents' evenings. The horror! Hmmm. Maybe I should discount that option. Although, what a fascinating blog that would be.

Something tells me I am fated to be carried out of the SOHK in a wooden box. Given the nature of our current Year 5 and 6 nutjobs, that could well be sooner than any of us anticipate.

Scouting for Girls

I have indeed slept with a Tory. I speak of Senor Boldon, of course (the grumpy and misanthropic brother of self proclaimed fanny-magnet, Rochester). Not only was Senor Boldon a Tory, but he also seemed to hold Maggie Thatcher in terribly high-regard. I forgave him such perplexing eccentricities, as it gave me plenty of opportunity for gentle teasing and mocking. Senor Boldon took this very well. His general response to my nuttiness was to just shake his head and mutter exasperatingly 'for fuck's sake, Elizabeth'.

I am not sure I could sleep with a Lib Dem. For a start, the teasing and mocking would not be an option, as Lib Dems do seem to be rather dry and humorless bunch. But worse than that, can you imagine Lib Dem sex? A night of gentle, respectful, consensual, feathery-stroking* on undyed, fair-trade bedding with only the prospect of granola and herbal tea for breakfast? The horror! Think of the foreplay, it would go on for hours (he would probably have a checklist to work through, downloaded from The Guardian Women's page and printed on recycled paper). Even if all you utterly desire is to be thrown across the kitchen table and taken roughly amidst the condiments, then no, I am sorry, with a Lib Dem you will be gravely disappointed. It wouldn't show enough 'respect' you see, enough 'sensitivity'. And the odds of getting a deliciously greasy post-coital breakfast of bacon and eggs are slim to none too.

Speaking of the crazily politically correct, I was amused to read that Rochester's adopted city of Bristol was up in arms about a planned visit from the sweetly beautiful burlesque artist, Dita Vin Teese. She had been commissioned to open a new exhibition. Did you know that in Bristol, children are forced to sit SATs in gender stereotyping, cultural diversity and how to complete the Guardian crossword? Anyway, local government do-gooders had their tassels in a twist about the whole thing.

'I am a gender equality consultant and I have been unable among all my professional colleagues to find a single expert on gender equality who does not agree that this event acts against the interests of women’s equality.'

'I am appalled and bitterly disappointed at the lack of gender equality awareness demonstrated thus far.'

'This amounts to a public body spending public money on the gratuitous debasement of women. Bristol City Council has a legal obligation to promote equality so should be supporting women, not demeaning them.'

Oh, for heaven's sake. I emailed Rochester, to find out where he stood in the great 'Bristols 4 Bristol' debate. But, it appears, the flaky fanny rat is going through one of his awkward phases again. He does infuriate me. One minute he is getting in touch and suggesting a drink, the next it is like communicating with the dead. Oddly, when I was with Senor Boldon (pre-Rochester) he would always speak of how darn unreliable his brother was, how chaotic his brother's life was. Of course, I had no way of knowing that I was destined to fall in love with the ramshackle rogue myself, 2 years later. It really was a match from hell though - the union of someone terminally insecure (me) with someone terminally unreliable (him).

Now. Sunday means one thing, of course, tea and scones in Newcastle with Madam Noir. Madam Noir is at a crossroads in her life, she is facing a possible redundancy situation. Despite my best efforts I cannot convince her to consider a new career in teaching. She appears to have set her heart on working as a John Lewis shopgirl. I predict if that does indeed comes to pass then she will be bankrupt within 3 months. Still, I do like the thought of having access to her staff-discount for the Lola Rose, Alex Monroe, Bobbi Brown and L'Occitane counters.

There was a rather amusing moment in town, Madam Noir, who has the grace and co-ordination of a Bambi on ice, crashed into a stand of CDs in HMV. What CDs did the gothic lezza send flying? Only the latest release by 'Scouting for Girls', of course.


* Marian Keyes describes namby pamby Lib Dem sex perfectly in her book Anybody Out There.  She calls purveyors of such a technique 'feathery strokers'.

Dead Man Walking (or Bald Man Jogging)

School of Hard Knocks Craziness

Well, half term came to an abrupt end and I have been plunged into the seething swamp of insanity that is the School of Hard Knocks. The children seem crazier than ever, Pompous seems even more boorishly Dickensian. And, of course, my schedule has just been frenzied: between the hours of 6am - 6pm I just don't sit down, life is dog-walking, teaching, marking, meetings. By 7pm I am literally dead on my feet. I fit in an hour's planning for the next day and collapse into bed. Meanwhile the dust is settling deep enough on my furniture to write my name in and Everestian piles of washing and ironing grow daily. Everything feels so chaotic and disorganized.

But, there was one story from the SOHK that did make me roar with horrified laughter this week. You may recall Pompous Pilate's attempt to bully me into taking a class of mentally challenged reprobates, and how I valiantly stood firm and refused. Well, my 'near miss' class are next door to me. I hear the shouts, screams, thuds and tantrums every day and give silent thanks that they are not my responsibility. Class 7 would make Bedlam seem like a Buddhist retreat.

This week, one of the class's more troubled children went to the toilet and stripped off. He then leapt around the classroom naked as a jaybird, squealing and lunging at the horrified pupils. His appalled teaching assistant managed to get hold of him, calm him down and lead him back to the toilets to get dressed. There she found his pile of clothes, they had been methodically arranged into a neat and tidy pyramid - the biggest items on the bottom, his socks carefully balled up and placed on top. The boy had added one final flourish to his garment sculpture though - a fresh, steaming poo.

Love in a Cold Climate

Well, not much to update on my interweb dating. I need to grasp the nettle and agree a date with C&C (the Cary Grant impersonating financial adviser). All my instincts do tell me he is a decent bloke, funny, understated and down to earth. I like him, I must say. I sent his picture to Madam Noir. Her assessment?

'Hmmm. He looks like a happier version of your ex, Senor Boldon. Although, C&C was smiling in that picture, unlike the Maharaja of Morose who just used to glower.'

(For Madam Noir, any resemblance to the Lexus driving lothario is almost as bad as discovering a potential beau is the twin brother of Ted Bundy.)

"Senor Boldon used to smile, his smile reminded me of Sid James's lascivious grimace.' I sighed, feeling quite nostalgic for the stir-fry obsessed misanthrope.

I must get the date with C&C arranged though, I must be brave. I just can't help but think that all relationships are just a recipe for pain and heartbreak. It feels a bit like willingly lying down on a railway track and waiting for the inevitable carnage.

McF, the godless Glaswegian fireman is also as eccentrically witty as ever. He shocked me this week. He'd received an email from a woman whose opening line was to claim to have breasts 'like melons'. She followed up this boastful claim with documentary evidence, a photo of them! I asked McF how they were, and how he had responded. He said he they were impressively 'succulent' and that he had simply congratulated her on her genetic advantage and then never contacted her again.

What an odd thing to do though, send a photo of yourself naked to a fireman you have never met! Although, I did once get sent a pic by a 23 year old fella via match.com. He led me to believe it was an innocent holiday snap. I was expecting to see the cheeky Irish scamp happily posing in front of Milan Cathedral, or similar cultural landmark. In fact, the pic was of an him with an entirely different kind of erection. I can't help but thing you'd be on a sticky wicket, starting a relationship with such a brazen exhibitionist. If McF settled down with Madam Cantaloupe he'd be forever wondering how many other scoundrels in the emergency services had his girlfriend's breasts as their screensaver. It would be the grit in the oyster of any relationship, I fear. A bit like the thought that your girl had shagged your big brother. Speaking of which . . . .

Bald Man Jogging

Madam Noir and I set off for our weekly latte and scone date today. We have to drive through Senor Boldon's manor to get to Newcastle. I am always on the alert as we pass through, like a lurcher looking for a rabbit. Today, in the distance I spied a jogger who was staggering quite precariously past a bus stop.

'Oooh Madam Noir. Bald man jogging. That could be Senor Boldon!' I cried.

I looked closer, Madam Noir was slowing down Ava (her red Golf GTI) to approach a roundabout. The jogger had now stumbled to a standstill and was grasping on to the bus stop to steady himself. He looked rather red faced and haggard.

'Dear God, Madam Noir, it IS Senor Boldon!' I screeched (this was the first time I had seen him in an eternity).

'He looks like he's turning blue, is he alright do you think? He hasn't half aged.' Madam Noir noted (she is a qualified first aider, she has her own fluorescent tabbard and everything).

'Less like Bald Man Jogging, more like Dead Man Walking.' I quipped. In truth, this sighting simply confirmed my view that jogging cannot be good for you.

It was odd to see the Burger Baron again though. Stirred up all sorts of thoughts and feelings. My personal achilles heel is that I just can't let people go, this is my personal cross to bear (christ, I still email Rochester). I find it difficult to get close to people, but once I have feelings for someone I find losing them unbearable. It seems so odd to see a someone jogging down the street, someone who I cared about massively and shared so much of myself with, and for them to be as remote as a stranger. . .

'Madam Noir, he did look rather ghastly and ill. Do you think we should go back and offer him a lift?' I suggested.

Madam Noir responded firmly, but silently. She simply pressed her Timberlanded foot powerfully on the pedal and we wooshed off in the opposite direction.

I can't afford you . . .

Now, interesting point, this. I don't want to go out with a poor man. I know that may sound rather snippy. It is not like I am purposely looking for a rich man to pay my bills and look after me. I just think that one of us should have some money, and that patently is not going to be me. Consequently, I have set an appropriate salary range for potential dates on my dating profile. There is also the point that I want someone who is relatively settled and successful in life. I am just trying to be honest, but I am aware it may look quite bad. I have just received an email from a bloke with the title 'how much?' This is what it said:

'I was about to compliment your lips but it dawned on me my subject line might be misconstrued! The compliment is intended, but the above ref was to the income level of your prospective beau. I don't think I can afford you; if you follow. Better stop digging that hole. Maybe when my three book deal comes through... '

Here is the question - am I wrong to set an income level?