Thoughts From a "Chatterbox"

People are a company’s greatest asset

2011-10-10T08:00:00.000+01:00

“People are definitely a company’s greatest asset. It doesn’t make any difference whether the product is cars or cosmetics. A company is only as good as the people it keeps.” Mary Kay Ash

Mary Kay was an American businesswoman and founder of Mary Kay Cosmetics Inc.

Ash was widely respected. She considered the ‘Golden Rule’ the founding principle of Mary Kay Cosmetics. She advocated "praising people to success."

The Golden Rule or ethic of reciprocity is a maxim, ethical code or morality that essentially states either of the following:

One should treat others as one would like others to treat oneself.
One should not treat others in ways that one would not like to be treated.

A key element of the Golden Rule is that a person attempting to live by this rule treats all people with consideration, not just members of his or her in-group. The Golden Rule has its roots in a wide range of world cultures, and is a standard different cultures use to resolve conflicts.

It’s a good point to keep in mind each day and one to return to when times are tough and if we may have lost our way.

Have a good week!

(For team building/bonding and motivational events, click on the link below and visit us at Chatterbox Events!)

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Booking a Motivational Speaker for Your Business

2011-10-07T08:00:00.001+01:00

U.S. based leadership training consultant John Hersey has this to say about the importance of motivating your staff and talks about one of the main search criteria for finding the right speaker ..

“Any company that cares for its personnel and recognizes their value as the moving force behind its business’s achievement, especially for the duration of difficult times, will certainly invite a motivational speaker to boost their pride and knowledge.

By planning a seminar for your workers, you are surely working towards improving your company’s productivity, sales, and image. In past years, a company’s worth was thought to be on the equipment it possessed. Right now, men and women are a company’s insurance for good results so, rather than upgrading equipment, the leadership team must be working on upgrading its staff’s efficiency and high quality of life.

Yes, motivational talks not only boost efficiency, skills, and motivation, but they also enhance the way in which the individual perceives his life and the globe around him. Via these talks, you are demonstrating that you care about the individual behind the job title. Employees feel valued, and in turn, it makes them value your business considerably more. This is why it is crucial not only that you employ a motivational speaker but that you hire the appropriate one.

But, how specifically do you hire the appropriate speaker to benefit you as a lot as your staff? There are many criteria, but the first thing to keep in mind is to look locally. Due to spending budget, and if you are generating this as a regular practice, you should study local motivational speakers, simply because they mean savings in travel, hotels and skilled fees. Nevertheless, in no way sacrifice top quality to practicality.”

Chatterbox Events is based just outside London and naturally, if a client wants one of our speakers in Australia ... of course we’d be happy to help ..but generally we find we work mainly within the UK and European market.

We don’t work with divas! We DO employ top notch speakers, with great experience and charisma and humility. Invest in the right presentation for your business and we’ll take care to give you the best service. Flights and hotels don’t need to be 5 star. But your speaker does.

(For team building/bonding and motivational events, click on the link below and visit us at Chatterbox Events!)

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

A laugh a day keeps the doctor away .. and helps us to learn ;-)

2011-10-06T08:00:00.002+01:00

U.S. based training and team building company ‘The Leaders Institute’ place add their voice to the huge value of laughter and fun within the team building environment ...

Here’s what one of their team has to say about it:

The Entertainment Value of Team Building Events

I’m ashamed to say that in the early part of my speaking career, I totally underestimated the value of entertainment in team building. Don’t get me wrong. I knew from day one that the best way to teach was to do so while people are having fun. Since I came from a teaching background, I learned very early on that people learn faster when they are laughing, so there has always been a focus on making the learning process entertaining. However, in the last ten years or so, a whole new team building industry has come onto the scene, and as a result, the entertainment aspect of training — specifically team building activities and events — has taken on a much bigger prominence.

A Great Team Building Event is Fun and Challenging!

Delivering a challenging activity in a fun and memorable way is an art. The very best team building event facilitators are those who sweep the audience into a fun activity making it appear as though a competition is occurring within the group. Those who can get positive peer pressure working in a way to build up energy along the way and add a little bit of comedy can ensure that the events are effective every time.

We love it when people concur with Chatterbox Events ;-) Go Guys! See you in Dallas someday for a beer ... ?!

(For incredibly fun (but very effective) team building/bonding and motivational events ;-) ... please do click on the link below and visit us at Chatterbox Events)

hhtp://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Being Smug isn’t clever. But isn’t it occasionally just terribly good FUN? ;-)

2011-10-05T12:55:00.003+01:00

Tee he he he he he.

Ha ha ha ha ha ha.

I know it’s just awwwwful to say, “Told ya so!” .. It’s only one step up from “Ner ner na ner ner!” (whilst sticking out your tongue with wide starey eyes and a expression of pure ‘smug.’)

But when you give your love, passion, energy, time and devotion to an idea that you know is a fundamental deal maker for building teams and absolutely works (!) ... and beastly detractors ‘out there in the ether’ seem to keep unearthing their views in the most public of ways ... informing the world, in their finest salutary tones, that ‘frivolous’ and ‘fun’ team building events have absolutely no value whatsoever to businesses wading through our troubled times ...

Well, my lovelies, it is doubly heartening to see that there are companies out there who, following the lead from one creative bunch of people working in the most sophisticated of cities, Paris, are actively seeking out their own way of frivolous and fun in-house team building (that’s how much they love it!)

And what a fantastic result they’ve had. So much so, that the idea has snowballed around the City and beyond, engendering a website dedicated to this most original way of ‘getting to know your colleagues.’

Check out the link below to see just how effective and beneficial even a simple idea like this can be to a bunch of co-workers. The article links to the website that shows a gallery of amazing creativity. Enjoy!

http://effectivetrainingdesign.com/category/team-building-activities/

(For incredibly frivolous and fun (but very effective) team building/bonding and motivational events ;-) ... please do click on the link below and visit us at Chatterbox Events!)

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

I Love Piers Morgan, Ian Hyland and Tony Bennett

2011-09-27T09:41:00.001+01:00

Where to start when there’s so much ‘love’ going on??

Let’s put politics aside here. I’m a secret fan of Sunday newspaper magazines; my week-end pair of slippers, they are. But while my fave, for sheer girlie indulgence, has been the Mail's YOU, I finally found true ‘article’ love ...

Piers Morgan. The man who put brought ‘life’ to ‘Live’ magazine. A stroke of genius to bring in a chap who can bring in the girls. I’m only vaguely embarrassed to admit that I studiously ignored this publication for over a year simply because I ‘didn’t like the photos on the front cover.’ Yes, I’m that one dimensional. Well done The Mail for making it so ‘man friendly.’ Until one beautiful life changing day when, under a jumble of journalistic writings, a photo of Hollywood's newest King of Chat adjusting his tie (was he about to rip it off, accompanied by a minxy look, for a passing Heidi Klum?) tempted me to reach down to the page.

And what joy! From Liz Jones to L.A.

From my favourite column of misery’n’men to the glamour and gossip from Mr M.

Not only was he a page opener, he became my page turner, introducing me to even more delicious ‘slipper bliss.’ If his page was so yumptious, what more were the Sunday Mail now offering? Well, I’d rather flip to the back page to read Chris Evans than news of who lost at Lords ... and the latest recruit, Ian Hyland - rightly snatched from the arms of the News of the World in the nano-second after it closed it’s doors – is bringing a fresh, cool acidity to the warmth of the mag’s inner sanctum with his razor sharp and awfully wicked, comic TV observations - more safely read through parted fingers. Even smirking in response offers the kind of guilt you’d feel at placing a Christmas tree chocolate coin into a church collection box.

But back to Piers. Amongst recent musings he reported, in length, his delight that Tony Bennett had winked at him from the ‘America’s Got Talent’ stage and that he could one day tell his grand-children this amazing news .. and, ultimately, die a happy man.

So here it is Piers ..

And this from a girl who would unashamedly stalk Mr Bennett simply to skip dreamily through his previous air-space; who quietly mouthed the lyrics to each and every rendition delivered in his sublime voice whilst seated and rapt, with repetitive goose bumps, during an evening of pure bliss at The Royal Albert Hall; who almost died with pleasure as he instructed the sound men to ‘switch off’ his microphone, then proceeded to indulge his delighted audience with a haunting a capella number, to round off a sparkling and unforgettable night; and, ultimately, who broke her personal ‘loitering-like-a-loser-rule’ in the corridor above his changing room in the pointless hope of shouting ‘I love you more than all your other weird stalkers’ as he left the building.

My friend Richard lived in New York city for 10 years, back in the 80’s. He moved in many circles and gathered a sizeable and eclectic group of friends. For some time he became close to a lady called Joanna. Both happily single, they hung out together as buddies and accompanied each other to various social events. After months of partying, Joanna invited Richard round to dinner at her apartment. A welcome night in, after so many city parties. On the day of the dinner, Joanna mentioned to Richard that her dad would be joining them as he was staying over.

Cue 8pm and Richard dutifully knocks at the door. “Hi” greeted daddy.

That evening, Richard enjoyed - to both his huge surprise and delight - an evening with Tony Bennett and his daughter, dinner cooked by the great man himself.

He has (sadly for me!) since lost touch with Joanna and is now based back in the UK, but Piers, I can’t believe – as a show judge - you didn’t sneak back-stage to the green room, or knock on his dressing room door (come ON, ANYone would eat some pride and do it!) No personal introduction from the AGT team? Are you totally teasing us that a wink was IT? Nothing more? You were THAT close to the God of All Voices and not even a humble hello or a pint of shandy?

If indeed, the above is true, you are almost as cool as Ian Hyland. But just ever-so-slightly nuts.

And please, next time you know you’re going to be within whispering distance of the singer that Sinatra rated as ‘the best in the world’ .. have a heart and if you don’t want it for yourself, do the decent thing, call this clown and introduce me - so I get a personal wink too ;-)

(For team building/bonding and motivational events, click on the link below and visit us at Chatterbox Events!)

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Team Building Vs Team Bonding

2011-09-23T16:24:00.016+01:00

Chatterbox Events didn’t consider offering it’s quirky and original team building events to the corporate world without either our own heartfelt beliefs or serious research into this industry.

Included here are some collective thoughts we’ve gathered from out there in the ether about the difference between "team building" and "team bonding," with which we heartily agree.

We hope you can take a couple of minutes to read through this very interesting text because we believe it will give you the clarity and insight you need to quickly decide what kind of "Team Event" you're actually looking for this year ...

THERE IS A KEY DIFFERENCE BETWEEN TEAM ‘BUILDING’ AND TEAM ‘BONDING’ THAT IS OFTEN OVER-LOOKED …

In business, a "team" is defined as a group of people who collaborate or work together towards a common goal. A "team" implies synergy, meaning the whole is greater than the sum of their parts. The essence of a team is a common commitment, because without it, the members are simply a group of individuals.

Thus a team is primarily about relationships within that team, and team ‘building’ strives to improve and enhance those relationships.

In order to truly build a team, team members first need to understand themselves, their strengths, their weaknesses and their own abilities to contribute. Then they must learn to understand their team-mates, their strengths and weaknesses, how they communicate and process information ... and their roles within the team. Finally they must fully understand the overall synergy within the team and what makes the strength of that team stronger than the sum of its parts.

Conversely, team ‘bonding’ is an opportunity for a company to reward its employees and for employees to introduce themselves to their colleagues on a more informal level.

In most organisations there is generally little time for colleagues to socialise and learn more about each other. You and the person who sits next to you at work may have more in common than you know. Whatever the activity might be, the goal is to allow colleagues to learn more about one another in a different setting, increase the number of areas of compatibility and provide for a more relaxed and understanding work environment.

In summary:

Before you decide to book a team "building" or a team “bonding” event for your staff or employees you need to ask yourself the following questions:

1) What is the true purpose of this event? Is it primarily an annual reward and opportunity for your people to spend a paid day together away from the office environment?

Or are there real problems blocking your team from maximising its potential?

Or .. is the team working well, but you think some direction might make them better yet?

2) Do you have any quantifiable objectives for the event? Do you simply want your employees to have some fun and blow off some steam together? Or would you like to see measurable improvement in their communication, co-operation, goal setting and problem solving?

3) If you would like to see some quantifiable improvements, how much time are you willing to commit?

Once you have established these answers you can begin to search for the appropriate event and

(For team building/bonding and motivational events, click on the link below and visit us at Chatterbox Events!)

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

I'm Back From the Underworld...!

2011-05-25T12:19:00.009+01:00

Oh Lordy Lord. HOW delightful to be navigating the delights of my very own Blog-Land again!

I've brushed down my typing fingers, ticked off the lazy side of my brain, plucked and poured myself an aromatic and rather delicious cup of fresh mint tea and am swivelling my head reluctantly only now and again to view the windows of our new eaves room above the garage which, at ground level, if not from my study on the first floor of the house, blocks the view of the a lady who likes to sit and stare into our kitchen from her attic. (I kid you not, I even took photos - nothing deterred her)

So ... Here we are. Now I have to get all creative again and hope that we can share some lovely chitter chatter up here to brighten our working days.

I've married and moved house since we last made contact ... and instead of my desk facing the front of my house - a terrible work deterrant my friends, all "Hello dahhhling!" to passing neighbours/dogs/cats .. anything for a doorstep moment really - I now face a white wall. Freshly painted, don't you know; but white, nonetheless. None too inspiring. I did consider mounting my large rectangular(previously living room) mirror in a strategic spot on this very white wall, to proffer a view of the trees behind me. This of course, would also give me access to a few neighbour's upper windows. Of course, not being the type to 'nose' (not without permission anyway ...) I worried far more about the consequences of being viewed in return myself. Gosh. How totally awful to be caught on those mornings I work at my desk in 'nobody can see me' styley. You know the one, your worst pyjama bottoms, an over-sized sweat-shirt (borrowed from Mr Him) the type he uses when he works on his oily bikes .. and .. oh I can't bear it .. my morning face. (it just isn't my best look; let's leave it discreetly there)

So. Here we are. Ah. Nice. Hello ...

Here's my website link for those I haven't met to date. I look forward to making your acquaintance!

hhtp://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Daft As a Brush

2009-10-30T06:00:00.001Z

This week it was reported that a group of 6 women have been jailed for repetitive theft in a number of London’s West End fashion stores. Of course, theft is bad. But you have to laugh at how enthusiastic and misguided they were. No violence involved .. just a few bin bags; loaded so generously that they were unable to carry them out of some shops. Per-lease??!

It reminds me of a story from some years ago about a couple of pensioners who raided a Post Office then stopped at red lights during their get-away drive.

And a guy who popped in to see a mate in prison and as the guards checked through visitors’ belongings he nonchalantly chucked his jacket (complete with an cube of dope) onto the table for inspection.

To paraphrase a perplexed posh girl’s quote from an 80’s TV sketch show:

“It’s not that I MIND silly people. I just don’t want to see them in Surrey.”

When I was 12 I was Eccentric

2009-10-29T06:00:00.000Z

I was sent away to school. Well, I was quite an annoying child so, to be fair, it was justified. And in honesty, it was also a personal choice. I couldn’t wait to get out of the family home and sleep with a bunch of fellow misfits in a rustic dormitory, bordered by parapets and manned by, amongst others, a nutty, short-sighted female midget who harboured an inappropriate love of spiders and said goodnight to anything within six inches, due to her lack of ability to distinguish a bedroom door from a cupboard full of winter coats and nylon pinafores.

During my first year I indulged in a committed passion for escape. However, no-one ever called me Houdini. Regularly, and not alone .. I enlisted fellow escapees .. all of whom were prepared to attempt my dawn break-outs. Not being blessed with the skills of Steve McQueen, our general routine would be:

Rise half an hour earlier than the rest of the boarders.
Don full school uniform. And boater hat. (Well if you’re going to do it, do it with a touch of style.)
Creep down the Central Hall carpeted stairs. (A sin punishable by slow death, no doubt from the utterly terrifying, chest heavy, talcum-powdered Head Mistress.)
Attempt to leave by the Main Front Door.
Fail. Because it was locked (Dur.)
Creep back up the carpeted stairs (twice was seriously stupid.)
Change back into frilled, static, nylon nightie.
Crawl back into bed to wait for the morning wake up bell.

My poor parents, having sacrificed at least a year or two of luxury for an education that was supposed to set me on the path to the career of my dreams .. or a BMW coupe, husband, 2.4 kids (what does a ‘point 4’ kid look like?) and a picket fence … suffered endlessly as I sent them painful, hand-written letters sodden with tears and tales of the misery of my incarceration with creepy corridor mistresses and a maths teacher who ‘didn’t understand’ my inability to grasp algebra.

The drama of my tomes would inevitably end with “and I will be running down the M25 from tomorrow at 6am. See you very soon.’ While they busily debated the wisdom of their decision to ‘give our daughter the best that an education can offer’ they would be graced with a schizophrenic follow up 24 hours later, telling them how much I adored my new friends, school and surroundings.

I can’t say I’ve lived up to their lofty expectations, but at least I never turned up to an interview with a leading make-up manufacturer and declared “Yeah .. I’ve always wanted to work as a beauty consultant for Yves Savelon.” It may be a small blessing, but when you’re desperate, you count them all …

I'm a Pariah - It's Official

2009-10-28T06:00:00.000Z

A dyslexic friend of mine recently asked me to complete an internet dating profile on her behalf. I joined up, in order to fulfil my friendship duty. I’d pre-written a fabulously gushing adage to my buddy in WORD and was just waiting to copy it over when the site informed me that I needed to check an email for my new username and password. Every time I visit to vet her latest ‘potential’ dates, I now have to check in as the ‘lochness monster.’

Do you think they saw me coming?

Discount Love

2009-10-27T06:00:00.000Z

Years ago, a friend of mine, who wasn't doing too well dating, used to book a box at Les Miserables. Thought it would impress 'the laaaadies.'

Only trouble was, it was the cheapest box in the theatre and one of the two seats had a restricted view. This of course, went happily un-noticed by his various companions, who were made to feel almost as important as our reigning Monarch.

In fact, such a successful formula it was that he visited regularly .. and as a gent (well, rather to win favour with his date) he only ever saw half the show.

19 times.

He would then return home with his delighted partner, flick one switch that kicked on a blue-lit smoke machine, seamlessly followed by another that filled the room with the mellifluous tones of Barry White and .. well, hope for Nirvana.

He encountered various disappointing moments along the way. I’m not sure date number 11 was a particular favourite. She hadn’t smiled much throughout the evening but cheered considerably on arrival at Chez ‘His Gaff.’ Positively grinning from ear to ear, she was. At which point he discovered her teeth were delicately rimmed by a blue stain. Sadly not one created by his smoke machine.

Still, throw enough mud at the walls and some of it sticks. He moved on from that show and is now happily married. Barry got pushed to the back of the loft and when he takes his wife to the West End, these days he buys grown up seats and an ice cream (before he offers her discount vouchers for Primark ..)

Gem Friend, Sticklebricks and Unmentionables ..

2009-10-26T06:00:00.000Z

My cute little nephews have just started to enjoy chatting on the phone. 4 and 6 yrs old. Sometimes they chat to me together (including the mandatory giggling over random topics such as poo and wee) and other times I get to enjoy their day’s news on an individual basis.

Fin (4, almost 5):
* Yes I like school, but people’s faces look stupid.
* My friends are Marcus and Luke.
* Today I played sticklebrooks (think he meant ‘bricks’); I listened to a book on earphones; I read some books and my favourite thing was Nintendo

Morgan (6, on his way to 7)
* I did Maths, English and French.
* I did swimming. 15 meters of the butterfly. In1 minute (Check that timing?!)
* I have new goggles and some Disney money.
* I played with my new ‘Gem Best Friend’ today.
(They search for gems: ‘bog-standard stones’ in the playground - and have ‘gem friends’ and gem ‘best friends’ for this hobby) I love this concept and have since adopted a ‘drink red wine till we crack up about the day we start wearing pensioners’ pants’ best friend’ ..a ‘laughs at everything I say’ best friend, for days when I feel needy and weak and seek out my fake fan-base for reassurement .. oh .. the list goes on, but trust me, it’s a whole new beautiful world ..)
* I’m on the waiting list for a new Ukelele. (Pause) But mummy’s buying it. (Pause) Because I only have a pound. (Pause) I spent all my money on sandy balls.
(I didn’t ask what these were …)

I should ring more often, but boys get moody after tea and don’t like Mad Aunties getting in the way of a good bed-time story or a biscuit. Anyway, occasional chats are more exciting. You don’t want to over-cook a good thing. It’s why all good women need to be a little unavailable to all grown men. I’m a lovely, warm, caring Aunty; just giving them a taste of their future while they’re young …

It Huuuuurrrrrrts!

2009-09-11T06:00:00.002+01:00

I’m not going to sit here as judge and jury. Nor am I going to knock the 1000’s of people who complete a good race; who train for months amidst sweat, blood and tears; rise at dawn before work, pound the streets in the dark to train for the glory of reaching the finishing line of some local or national marathon. I respect their stamina and drive.

I’m not going to say that Seb didn’t give us something incredible to shout about (I was the loudest one in the room during his most glorious moments) .. that Paula hasn’t achieved astounding, historical success.

But for the likes of humble old you and me … the type who’d just about make it a few yards up the road to the park on a good day … what IS the point of running?

In my early 20’s I asked a boyfriend to take me running to ‘get me fit.’ His legs were about a foot longer than mine so it wasn’t the easiest hour of my life. We bounded out of the house, hangered right and shot down the first hill, smiling all the way.

Shortly after turning left at the junction we embarked on a steady climb for the next mile. A mile I didn’t much enjoy. In fact a mile that totally ruined my morning. I started to whinge. My calves hurt. My chest hurt. I needed to stop to get my breath. I was thirsty.

As daddy-long-legs stretched his pins a metre at a time, striding the length of the high street in less time than it takes a spider to gobble a fly, I disintegrated into a gibbering wreck behind him; a pouting, moody, irritating slouch.

“I can’t keep up.”

“Try sweetheart. I’ll slow down a bit.”

“You’re still going too fast.”

“I’ll slow down a bit more.”

“I need to walk.”

“Honestly, you can do it! C’mon. Push yourself.”

“I caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaan’t!!!”

And on I limped. Walking a little. Running a couple of yards. Walking a lot more. Running while I wheezed dramatically.

It really wasn’t for me. All that carbon monoxide. All that dog poo to dodge (they didn’t have the same laws in place for poop scooping back then) .. My poor cartilages (they needed more care than this)

I could never work out why someone would want to run for fun. Where are you running TO? I mean, all you do is run away from home, then run back again. Which takes me back to my original question. What’s the point?

Why run 6 miles and get nowhere, when you can walk 200 yards to the nearest pub?

Why run 2 miles and get nowhere, when you can cycle to the shops and come back with a take away?

Why mess up your metatarsals when you put your feet up on a nice comfy cushion, pour a glass of Rioja and settle down to four hours of “Once Upon A Time in America?”

I haven’t changed. I walk for a reason only (to enjoy trees and feed the duckies) … I cycle (I use it like a car) … but I still don’t understand the point of running.

Unless it’s into a shop full of the most delicious chocolate.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Curry? Or a Man in a Dress?

2009-09-10T06:00:00.000+01:00

These are some of the choices my girlfriends are being offered on dating sites:

“Hello there, My name is Gupta. I am brave and handsome man from India and you could be my Mumbai blossom. Please will you be considering one curry with me, your good self and my mother?”

“I have just viewed all the profiles on RussianBitsOnTheSide.com and came here instead. I find you awfully pleasing on the eye. I’m also impressed that at your delicate age you are emotionally mature. Since giving up competitive international sport I have concentrated on starting my own business manufacturing masculine corsets for gentlemen who are abdominally challenged and this has proved rather lucrative. As a result I am free to roam the world in my private yacht. Should you wish to join me in Antigua for a month or so later in the year, I would be most aroused.” (Trevor, from Chipping Sodbury)

“I am a transvestite and I go out every week with my friends (Leeds every Tuesday, Wakefield on the first Friday in the month, Manchester every month and Sheffield every month) I am not gay. I do it for stress.”

Which would YOU choose? (or who do you think was joking??) ;-)

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Ugh! (Not the boots ...)

2009-09-09T06:00:00.001+01:00

Why do boys dress up to attend rugby matches? Someone enlighten me please.

Does this remind anyone of their mother after a few too many gins and an argument with her hairdresser?

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

I Got Dumped At the Pea Counter

2009-09-08T06:00:00.002+01:00

When we couldn’t sleep at boarding school after lights out, we’d waste hours giggling like idiots, creating our own electric light displays in the dark by rubbing bits of our nylon nighties together to initiate a striking array of static sparks.

What concerns me most isn’t the sad habits we adopted, but the fact we were only 12 and that pink or blue partly-smocked nylon nighties were ‘on trend.’ That, along with sax blue knickers (huge pants to wear underneath your gym skirt) … and crimplene pinafores; well frankly it’s no surprise that it wasn’t until we were almost 14 that a day girl returned to school after the summer holidays with her first ‘love bite.’

WHY do people go round ‘love biting?’ Have I missed the point? Or is there something remotely desirable about a ‘bit of talent’ embedding their teeth as deep as possible into your flesh and drawing on it until you’re left with a hearty enough bruise to last a fortnight?

When I was a teenager love-bites were worn as a badge of honour. I don’t have teenage children (any children, in fact) so I have no idea if it’s still a ‘popular sport.’ But at my school, if you ‘wore your collar’ up it was not only a stand against authority and the school rules, but also a clear indication that you’d ‘arrived.’ You HAD A BOYFRIEND (or at least had been loved for around 10 minutes) And he’d been naughty with you. Bottom line was, it was the signature of cool-dom. Everyone wanted a love bite.

Back then I really wanted one, but no-one fancied me enough to suck my neck. I couldn’t even get Christopher Field to kiss me during kiss chase at Junior School. I caught HIM once but he tugged and tugged until he got away.

Nigel Knevitt loved me (he told me) but I fancied Christopher Field and loved Craig Withers (who didn’t love me) and saved a passing affection for cute Kevin the stammerer who was too busy trying to stop stammering to notice me staring.

So with this disastrous junior personal love-history and my national health specs (“Well you’re not responsible enough to have private ones after you broke the last pair”) I was at the bottom of every boy’s hit list.

In fact, I’m not sure I even made it to a list at all.

Even Clinton, who gave me my first clumsy snog under the cloister lights at of our ‘Hire A Horror’ summer balls (so named because of the local boys’ general behaviour) was so unimpressed with me that he dumped me at the pea counter in Tescos the following week-end.

So I never did get that love-bite. But I did get rid of the big knickers. And the smock nighties. And the national health specs. And .. well, I’ve shortened the crimplene pinafore and bought some long socks. You never know. They may come in handy when Craig comes back to claim me …

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

The Most Ridiculous Tan on Earth

2009-09-07T06:00:00.000+01:00

Outside the supermarket just after I returned from my Easter holiday, locking up my cycle, a fellow cyclist enquired “Is that a real tan?”

“Sure is” I smiled. “Just back from Thailand. Fab weather.”

“I have a tan” he continued. “A cycling tan.”

He looked ever so proud.

“I’ve been on my bike every day for the past month.”

“Ah! You’ve got the t-shirt tan?” I nodded.

“No. I have a smaller tan than that” he assured me.

I started to worry.

Suddenly two hands were thrust in front of me, palms down, a mili-second after he’d whipped off his right cycling glove.

Check out the TEENIEST square in the world on his right hand. It was 1 cm square of quality tanning.

I met him. Not your average White Van Man, but my very own Right Hand Tan Man.

Can’t say his helmet was a lot better (Stop it! Take a look and you’ll see what I mean)

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

The Politically Correct People are coming to Get You!

2009-09-04T06:00:00.000+01:00

Saw this sign outside a restaurant a while back:

“If you want to be a Fat Ass, try our GREAT Lasagne!”

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

There is a Time to Wee and A Time Not To Wee ..

2009-09-03T06:00:00.004+01:00

I have a cat. I’m not some sad singleton with a house that smells of hair, poo and wee wee. I aerate my property … and loving a little thing has it’s benefits …

… Apart from this morning when I was subjected to the dubious pleasure of a cops'n'robbers chase around the house with a broomstick and long handled feather duster (keen hands being completely insufficient for the task of 'capture and place sweary-cat-in-box') in an almost fruitless mission to get said moggie to vet for a simple check-up.

As she (Lulu, the Annoying Cat) hopped out of my dastardly reach time after time, I found myself racing downstairs, only to chase back up seconds later. Under the spare bed she vanished (remove all contents from below & throw them recklessly out of the way to get to cat) … Under the sofa she disappeared (remove all contents below and chuck asunder to get to cat) …

Third time in, and once we'd developed a cute little routine (not), I managed to remember to shut all doors upstairs. With the remainder of my furniture largely exposed or hugging the walls on ground level and nowhere but corners of the landing left to cower in on level deux, this left her with only ‘under the sofa’ as a hidey hole. Nothing that a big-eyed, scowly mummy couldn’t conquer ...

The gap under my sofa measures precisely three inches in depth (I checked it after the trauma to see how temporarily squashed and distorted my face had unhappily been during this particular part of the incident) plus, I was wearing glasses at the time of the ‘incredible chase’ which seriously limits peripheral vision. Read on to see why …

My cat had flattened herself like Tom (aka Tom and Jerry) to within an inch of her life and future health and was now splayed like the contents of a ‘cat sandwich’ looking as fearful as a cat can. Well, I SAY fearful; the only way I could see her in the pitch black of her cocoon was to lower my head sideways, press my right ear hard into the floor, almost break one arm of my specs, wink, shine a torch towards her furry self and warn, with one eye and stern words, that ‘coming out’ was a given.

At this point, I was rather glowy (hot) (actually, horribly sweaty .. but girls only glow, yes?) but somehow managed, with the aid of a fuscia pink beach towel (bad colour; used only for sun-bathing and 'medical' moments) to push her slim but stubborn frame firmly into the box, lock cage door and buzz vet to say I was running late.

Best news.

I had wrong day.

Can you BELIEVE it? WRONG day … after a scene from ‘hell meets hell’ that lasted a good half hour, wore us both out and left my beautiful tidy home resembling a scene from the fake movie: “I’m a squirrel who just dug up all your plants and brought a fox with me to kill all your chickens too, just so your garden looks a little bit messier than if it had only been meee creating damage.”

On the phone now, I whimpered with despair, assuring the kind nursey that I couldn't possibly squeeze her into the cat basket again tomorrow (the cat, not the nurse.) Too traumatic. For me. (Hang the cat's feelings)

Adorable as my surgery is, myself and the offending moggy were promptly booked in for an hour hence and duly arrived to see our lovely vet. Time for a weigh in. Oh the joy of scales. Now I know it's not pleasant finding out how fat or underweight you may be, but when the two returned with Mr Vet soaked in Lulu's wee wee, well it was an embarrassed mother that had to deal with the fall out. No change of clothes to hand, the poor gent was now faced with spending the day smelling as attractive as a silage bunker.

However, not a mummy who shirks her educational duties, we drove most immediately to Kew Gardens to buy a beautiful card decked with a cat dressed as a Princess and wrote in it:

Dear Uncle Tim

I’m sorry that I ‘excused myself’ all over you this morning. You see, I’m a Princess at home. I like to get everything my own way. Mummy had squashed me into that horrid cage and I took revenge, all over you. I am now in the ‘Naughty Club’ until I write this card.

I promise to try to behave myself better next time.

Purrs
From Lulu

Delivered without delay to Uncle Tim, she’s nothing if not contrite and, after a fashion, pretty well mannered.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Lunch-Time Madness

2009-09-02T06:00:00.001+01:00

I have a friend who’s such an impulsive spender that she popped out at lunch-time last week to buy a sandwich and came back with a fish tank.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Death of a Pidgeon

2009-09-01T06:00:00.003+01:00

I’m taking a few minutes out to remember a heroine.

Martha, the last known Passenger Pidgeon died today, in 1914. Bish bosh. One sad demise and that was it. No more of them. All we’ve got now is the ones who poo in your hair at tea-time in St James Park.

Good girl she was, Martha. No fly by night that bird.

Hunting was huge back then. Pidgeons were a popular food. Most of her mates ended up in pidgeon pies. Martha was lucky she lived a long life at Cincinnati Zoo. Croaked it at the bottom of her cage, bless her. Nothing sinister. Just old age. Let’s take a moment to honour her memory.

A friend’s mother had a pet pidgeon (or so she thought) .. Every day she’d go out to her garden, call out in a sing-song voice and down would fly a local bird to eat her offerings. Convinced they had ‘something special going on’ she would chat animatedly about her new ‘wild pet’ bird.

“But they all look the same“ her daughter pointed out, perplexed.

“No. I KNOW it’s the same pidgeon” her mother insisted.

“How?” came the baffled response.

“Because all I have to do is call “Piiiiiiiiiii-hiiiiiiiiiidge” and down he comes. Every time. Like clockwork!” she smiled, satisfied.

Deluded.

But kind of cute. Right?

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Grandpa's Slippers

2009-08-31T06:00:00.002+01:00

Oh gosh. We’ve officially reached the end of the summer.

No more frolicking in the barn with your lover (getting sharp bits of hay stuck in your new frillies)

No more trips to your nearest City river to watch one swan attack your younger brother for throwing bread in it’s eyes while the next one along tries to drown your dog.

No more visits to zoos to say “Ah to a Koala” and “What’s the Point?” to Emus. (Well, they don’t do much, do they?)

No more arguments with Granny about who gets to eat the last choc ice (why don’t they like Zooms?)

No more great weather.

Check that.

No more ummm … Well, maybe that Indian summer will be thrust upon us any minute now.

But one of my friends is more worried about how Uncle Shamus is getting on with his new slippers.

He bought them last week, on account of his lack of agility. They came with a special sole that sticks to the carpet and helps keep you steady. No slipping.

Trouble was, he was staying with family and had what can only be described as a ‘bit of a night’ last week .. needing to visit the ‘little room’ more than an acceptable number of times. Would’ve been okay, but for the fact that the family have only one loo, it’s on the ground floor and the stairs are currently only covered with underlay. It was touch and go if he’d make it through to dawn as he spent the entire night getting stuck to the grippers. Funny to think of him being stapled to the floor. Not so funny for him of course, but they put a trampoline at the foot of the stairs to bounce him back up again if he fell.

They’re nothing if not considerate.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Talk to the Hand, I'm SO not interested!

2009-08-28T06:00:00.004+01:00

Those halcyon days of youth, having been tarred by dear old Mrs Woollard’s sewing lessons, did leave a need to prove something to her .. even if she was unable to review the results from ‘Stitch Heaven.’ (She’d taken to passing by my machine without a glance after week 5 and no improvement or interest on my part)

At thirteen years of age, I left an entire summer of sewing behind me with one hessian bag - the less than proud owner of 3 seams and a handle; a stark reminder of my distinct lack of ability alongside my peers’ triumphant blouses, littered with complicated button holes, perfect yokes and lace trimmings.

Over 25 years on, I designed, then cut, sewed and embroidered my first Jilly JamJar costume all on my very own (ok, with a teeny bit of help on design. And cutting. Oh and initial stitching!) I then felt vindicated enough to contract out the next three to someone who actually enjoys the task.

Chemistry was another nemesis. Our teacher Mr Churchyard (his real name) was obsessed with ‘Sidney,’ a fictitious character who kept knocking his arm, thereby preventing him from writing successfully on the blackboard. Fun, but even Sidney couldn’t fuel my interest beyond watching the beautiful wild mini-flames from the tip of a litmus strip burn furiously in the nearest bunsen burner.

And what IS it with algebra?

Who cares if X times Y divided by C equals YAWN?

Who’s really bothered that the numerical part of the term, or the number factor of the term, is what is jolly well referred to as the ‘numerical coefficient?’

Who’s going to lose their mind if they don’t even begin to understand that an ‘algebraic expression’ is a meaningful collection of numbers, variables, and signs, positive or negative, of operations that must make mathematical and logical sense?

NONE of it makes logical sense to most mortals!

Personally, I never ‘got it.’ I had extra lessons to try to separate that part of my brain from the creative side and make it work. Note to Parents: Thank you sincerely for the thoughtful investment but if it doesn’t work after a year of concerted effort I’m living proof that it never will!

I’m fine now though. Thank you for asking. I’ve jostled with banking, served in a pub (for one evening) I’ve sung for my supper, painted glassware, typed letters for solicitors and the public sector, pranced around in a feather head-dress as part of a sword-walking/fire eating cabaret act, worked in the smartest West End offices and enjoyed the scruff’n’bustle of pre-regeneration Elephant and Castle. Yes, I enjoyed a myriad of jobs in my ‘yoof’ but not one soul ever asked me if my linear or quadratic equation (keeping my constants and variables on track of course) worked comfortably with my vector spaces.

(And anyone who knows what a mess I’ve made of that last sentence needs to hang loose, eat a flavoured ice lolly and shout something stupid at a grasshopper)

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Can You Help?

2009-08-27T06:00:00.001+01:00

A man I know would like to know the answer to this imponderable question …

“Is it possible for a lady to put on her mascara with her mouth closed ….?”

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Rumpology

2009-08-26T06:00:00.010+01:00

Jackie Stallone really is a scream. I met her during my 20’s in a Pizza bar in London’s West End. She was surrounded by big men in stetsons and was too irresistibly nuts to ignore. I approached her table and she invited me to join them. I was with a large group and they sighed in acceptance as I explained I’d be a few minutes on an ‘away trip.’ At the time, Jackie was promoting her female mud wrestling nights.

As I sat before her all innocent, plumped, pruned and preened, dressed for a sensible basement dining night out, her opening gambit was a delicate: "You could be one of my girls." With a once over look as professional as any Hollywood casting director, she was clearly picturing me half dressed in a teeny bikini, shouting abuse at some Mother of an Amazonian, bronzed wildcat, both us covered in slimy stuff and having a good old catfight. Perhaps she glimpsed an unknown talent I've yet to discover?

Second gem was to ask me ‘Who are you with? Who’s your man?” whilst dismissively waving a hand, declaring “He’s no good for you. Get rid of him” before I'd even managed to point out the offending object. She then spent the rest of the evening tripping around the tables promoting her wrestling nights, leaving me briefly with her stetson clad bouncers, one being her partner/manager and the other who kept reminding me strongly that "I could do better " (than return to my boyfriend.)

Did you know she’s the master of Rumpology?

Yes, indeed. The ancient art of reading your future from your rump is probably horribly accurate … because all you need to do for intimate feed-back is email her a close-up picture of your posterior which she uses as “a guide to see your future, a beacon to show the way and to impart confidence” .. (that is if you’re confident enough to set up your digital camera and down-load the pink pictures, or hop on the photocopier ‘commando style’ after a few too many martinis at the office Christmas bash.)

Either way .. I’m not sure I’d invite such a ‘fleshy’ reading. Far more civilised to just get someone to read my palm and confirm that I’ll never have children (oh, that'll be my age then) my garden will continue to produce triffid-style weeds (I drink happily while I watch the weeds meticulously murder every plant) and keep quiet the fact that the only reason I opted to discover my future this way is because my bottom is far too large for the photocopier.

http://chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Tell Me About Your Mummy.

2009-08-25T06:00:00.000+01:00

An incoming note from another ‘internet love-seeker’ … ended with this endearing question:

“One final point – Since it is important for me to know how my future bride will age, may I ask whether your mother has developed bingo wings?”

“No darling” .. my friend wanted to reply. “But can you tell me in which ways your father has shrivelled.”

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Uh Oh!

2009-08-24T11:44:00.000+01:00

Another friend, on another dating site ..

Profile she saw: (brief and .. well, decide for yourself ..)

“I don’t know what I’m looking for. I’m poor, always late and a liar. If this doesn’t frighten you, write to me.”

She wrote to tell him he sounded lovely.

I know you didn’t believe that last line.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Sweet Music They Did Not Make.

2009-08-21T06:00:00.000+01:00

In the middle of my ‘music career’ .. (singing in lousy pubs for years) .. I tried my luck with cold calling a few record companies.

My favourite response (in retrospect) was:

“You’ve got 60 seconds to talk” while the kindly A&R gentleman counted me down as I tried to pack in everything I needed to say to convince him that I was the next Sinead O’Connor (we’re going back here)

He didn’t stop counting. Loudly throughout. Clearly heard nothing of what I said. And since I determined not to stop (despite crushing humiliation) I was still at the loser’s end of the line when he slammed the phone down immediately he’d uttered the word ZERO.

I can’t say we’ve been best friends since then, but I guess it saved my phone bill.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

I loved You Craig, even though you were a Conker Thief

2009-08-20T06:00:00.001+01:00

Prep School (early 70’s)

Teacher comes into class and we all have to stand quietly while she strides to position, whereupon we chant “Good Morning Miss Whoever” ..

Nano-seconds before this daily drudge I’d been whispering about my latest finds from the grounds of ‘the hut’ .. a kids’ den, used by kids (well it would be) … whilst our parents played tennis matches on a Saturday morning. (HOW suburban?!)

“This is the best one!” I turned round and hissed at Craig.

(I loved Craig but he didn’t love me)

Craig reached out to see my offering.

He took it, to touch it and admire it.

Then just as teacher arrived, he popped it in his pocket and mouthed “THANK YOU!” with the only loving smile he ever shot in my direction.

I can’t believe it!!!!

Craig Withers STOLE my BEST CONKER!

Craig, I may have loved you, but not THAT much. If you’re out there … I’d like my conker back!

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Was It the Drink??

2009-08-19T06:00:00.000+01:00

Out to dinner one night, at a table with people I’d worked with for the first time that day.

I’ve always loved ‘random’ …

And this was a classic.

Conversation was running at ‘normal’ when one of the party of eight announced, very loudly:

“I think a poodle will win the next Crufts.”

Think about it. There’s no way back from that one ..

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

I'd Rather Save Up Wine Coupons ...

2009-08-18T06:00:00.001+01:00

I heard through the grapevine about a well meaning acquaintance who went off to The Yemen to save Limas.

She returned ever so soon afterwards.

They didn’t need saving.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Do I LOOK Stupid?

2009-08-17T06:00:00.001+01:00

A friend of mine, part-time actor and talented artist, landed a job as an actor on a commercial shoot.

On the day of filming he was informed that he was to play a man with a fungal infection in the lungs.

“How do I play it?” he asked with interest.

They handed him a dressing gown, told him to put it on .. and look sad.

Not what you’d called rocket science.

I’m applying for acting jobs as this post gets scheduled.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

I'm Fine Without You. Honest.

2009-08-14T06:00:00.000+01:00

Always a true word spoken in jest …

So I was told, one of the best selling songs in Thailand in the 90’s had a rather wordy but honest title:

“How can I say I miss you when you won’t damned well leave me alone …?”

All stalkers please take note.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Builders' Love

2009-08-13T06:00:00.001+01:00

I heard a builder say to his girlfriend:

“I love you so much I want to shout your name from the rooftop!”

As she smiled dreamily he added ..

“So long as I didn’t build the roof …”

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Subtlety Was Never His Strong Point.

2009-08-12T06:00:00.001+01:00

Tell me if you think this line of approach could do with improving …

I greeted a friend one day who I hadn’t seen for about two years.

I wasn’t feeling my best at the time, so as we embraced I joked:

“I’m run-down and spotty, but apart from that I’m great.”

His response as he gave me a hug was:

“Yes, and you’ve put on weight too.”

Well … ??

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Someone Had To Do It ..

2009-08-11T06:00:00.001+01:00

I was young. I was in Bristol. I was hungry. I was in a café.

A rough one.

Only one thing on the menu sounded edible.

I ordered lasagne.

It arrived looking a little stiffer than a starched collar.

I did try to cut it, but as a chunk of beef shot across the table I performed the only honourable task a girl can do with a stale slab of Italy on her plate ... I carved the word YUK in the pasta (the lasagne didn’t move) .. discarded the remains of the solid mass onto a side plate, left my handiwork on display, said thank you to the waitress, paid my bill and, well I believe the offending item was sent back to the chef.

Do you think he ate my words …?

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Rude Can Be Fun – But Only When You’re Dressed As a Nutter

2009-08-10T06:00:00.000+01:00

A friend of mine loves to dress up.

He mooched about at a ton of great fancy dress parties during his 20-30 decade.

Then he hit on a favourite outfit.

Jekyll and Hyde. Well, Mr Hyde actually.

He gaily told me how he loved to wander around a party, gliding smoothly from group to group. As people bored him he’d shout:

“You’re BORING – I can’t BEAR this!” and he’d move swiftly on.

They laughed.

And so did he.

(But only out of ear shot)

Because .. he meant it!

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Today’s Little Jaunt

2009-08-09T19:34:00.008+01:00

All my adorable clients are now in Mustique, Devon and Bognor (or wherever they go to have fun on their hols) .. so Jilly JamJar is taking a little time out in London for a different kind of fun at week-ends (don’t get fancy ideas my dears; I only went out for a cycle!)

Darling Boris (our nutty Mayor of London) .. has a fantastic new initiative to roll out cycling events in London’s boroughs, designed to encourage families et all to get off their bottoms and well, straight back on them again … in the form of good old cycling! I met up with a friend and off we popped, through Brentford, Osterley Park, down quiet, leafy side roads and onwards … with 1000’s of others on the same route.

After a gossip and picnic stop, we reached the finishing line of our circular route at a leisurely pace and I wandered past all the information tents picking up armfuls of FREE maps containing ALL cycle routes and cycle friendly paths/roads in and around London. Fantastic! These events aren’t about racing; they’re about enjoying who you’re with, your surroundings and learning about places you maybe didn’t even know existed.

The next event is in the centre of London .. on Sunday 20th September. Check it out if you want to take part and learn more about our amazing city.

You can join two groups, pick up maps and event information at:

http://www.ctc.org.uk/ (this one is for the 20th Sept ride)
and
http://www.lcc.org.uk/

Both issue bi-monthly magazines that cost a total of around £35 per year for all the mags, special discounts on bikes/accessories etc and all sorts of member information. Is an amazing deal for a growing culture and there are lots of fun, FREE cycling events you can attend. What more can we ask for during a recession? A cost-free way of getting/keeping fit, breathing fresh air, meeting new people and having a laugh. Boris and the cycling organisations …We love you!

Attached here are some pics of the event. Two human bumble bees attended, an 80’s pop chick who blasted out music and sang along on her microphone as she peddled … and many more …

I lost the plot and figured it would be fun to hold a tarantula in the ‘Exotic Creatures’ tent … Sorry boys, no beautiful Brazilian models showed up ;-)

At the end of the day, not even the girls objects to eye candy … and it makes a change for the boys to entertain the girls ;-) … I spotted Nick and his mates (volunteers at the event) having a laugh as they packed up their information tent and instructed him to pose for a photograph ‘most immediately’ .. to keep my female readers happy, naturally! (He didn’t hesitate to oblige – ever so shy they all weren’t – and btw, he’s a talented professional photographer .. so if anyone needs Nick, call me via Chatterbox Events, because he’s now on my books in the Entertainment Agency Section)

Happy Days. Chat tomorrow!

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Forgive Me ... ?

2009-08-07T06:00:00.000+01:00

A long time ago, for some forgettable reason, a friend challenged me to re-write some nursery rhymes. I unearthed them the other day. They hold no value, but sharing is caring:

Mary had a little lamb
It’s fleece was white as snow
So Mary dyed him brown with stripes
And used him as a banjo.

The Lion and the Unicorn
Were fighting for the crown
The Lion beat the Unicorn
All around the town
The Unicorn, he loved it
Shouting “Beat me more again.
Forget the crown, chase me round town,
It’s much more fun with men!”

Little Jack Horner
Sat in the corner
Eating his Christmas pie
He put in his thumb
And pulled out his mum.
What a clever guy!

Jack and Jill went up the hill
To fetch a pale of gin
When Jill came down, she was such a mess
She thought she was a chicken.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Hairy Scary

2009-08-06T06:00:00.001+01:00

Can’t mention the name of the guy (he’s already ruined his reputation in his home town ..) so let’s just call him Mr X.

Mr X goes out one night to a party. He’s young, cool (apparently) and has lots of lovely friends. He’s welcome at the party (at this point) … He chats away to lots of people. La la la.

Then a hot woman walks in.

She’s hot.

Very hot.

All the guys want her.

But of all the men in that sweaty little kitchen (yes, he’d gravitated there too) she chooses …. HIM.

She chats away (but he hasn’t clocked that she’s ‘into him’)

He chats back.

“So ….. “ (he takes his time, looking her up and down slowly)

“Yeeeeeesssss?” she grins back sexily.

“How long did it take to develop that beard then?”

End of one potential romance.

(Do you think he’s related to Simon …?)

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

STRESSSSSSSSS!

2009-08-05T01:00:00.000+01:00

I’m dog-sitting. Well, not officially. Not just yet. You see, my friend has brought Naughty Poppy down from Manchester (at my insistence) .. (for photo of Poppy, see 14th July)

Friend is now in bed (getting up at silly o’clock for a London shoot – she’s a make-up artist) and Poppy’s in her bed next to my computer while I happily blog.

That’s the perfect scenario for a dog visit. Yes?

The reality is that Lulu (my adored cat) just scratched at the window to come in (she talks to me this way and comes to collect me in the same fashion whenever I pop to other neighbour’s houses – it’s her calling sign and everyone thinks it’s dead cute) … I knew if I let her in and she saw Poppy, things would go downhill … but I don’t like to leave her outside when she’s needing her home. So I took a risk and opened the door, ready to keep a sharp eye on the game.

We have a routine: She scratches. I open door. I look down at her. She looks up at me. I make the ‘come on in’ sound. She looks defiant. She doesn’t come in. Even thought she just asked to do exactly that. I walk inside (hiding behind the door doesn’t work) and she then runs in at the speed of Daly Thompson, straight to her food.

Same routine.
Every day.
Several times.
For ten years.
Wouldn’t you think she’d cottoned on that I’d cottoned on?

Anyway … she came in (after I’d walked inside) …. looked left and spotted Poppy. Poppy looked interested. FAR too interested (she’s 3 months old and smaller than Lulu but that doesn’t stop a dog wanting to eat/play/kill a cat) … Lulu registers the reality of the situation and legs it. Amid urgent feelings of guilt that I risked this moment , Lulu legs it faster than Red Rum and whilst I’m panicking about her, Poppy also leaves in hot pursuit!

It’s dark and I don’t know this dog!

It all happened so fast you couldn’t have flipped a pancake. I rush out in my socks (well my feet got chilly) and shout into the 11pm ‘film set quiet’ street … “Poppppppppyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy COME BACK!!!!” while she keeps up ‘cat pursuit’ … All totally horrible. Then I had a light bulb moment (bear in mind, this all happened within ten seconds!) Dogs respond to commands. I’ve only known Poppy 10 and half minutes (ok, 4 hours) but she obeys and runs back in. Having been only a cat owner for the past 10 yrs – to a cat who challenges, but never responds to commands - even the love of other people’s dogs doesn’t remind you instantly that when you seriously need an animal to respond, cats take one look over their shoulder with a withering “Do I LOOK like I care?” expression and dogs return to base, pant a lot and wait for praise.

My heartbeat just raised about 500% as, during those fleeting seconds across the road from my home, I pictured the morning scene as I rose especially early to tell my friend “Enjoy your day fixing wigs to your actresses and making their faces look beautiful. Oh. By the way. I’m so sorry, but your dog killed my cat and neither returned.”

It’s over.
She’s gnawing a bone.
(That’ll be Poppy I’m referring to)
I’m typing this …
.. and Lulu will return when Poppy leaves on Wednesday.

And people say “Never work with animals or children?”

Children I can do.

Animals? You got it. I’ve just fallen into line.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Strained Relations ...

2009-08-04T02:30:00.000+01:00

Not sure living by the sea is as great as it’s cooked up to be.

I have a friend who’s children have nick-named their maternal grandmother: Nanny Beach.

Only issue with this one is that the youngest hasn’t yet mastered the word ‘beach’ so nanny is now the notorious:

Nanny Bitch.

Oh stop it. It’s true. And I just find it soooo funny.

Does this make me bad …??!

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Something Just Had a Blow Out

2009-08-03T15:58:00.004+01:00

... And it wasn’t the candles on a birthday cake.

Here I am minding my own business at my desk when an almighty knock pounds at my front door and a neighbour asks if I have a bicycle pump he can borrow to add the final touches to his sister’s bike. The one he’s just spent hours lovingly mending.

Not only do I have a pump, dear readers, I am proud owner of a stand-up pump capable of fixing a Lear Jet’s rear end. So out he hops with the mother of all pieces of kit and a huge grin on his face. All I can see through my net curtains (yes, I have nets – there’s a good reason for this .. check 23rd Feb post) is a happy ginger haired lad bouncing up and down atop the long, sturdy handle, enthusiastic in his pump action groove, continuously repeating (loudly) “FanTASTic!” ….

Less than a minute later he’s back in the porch handing back the kit triumphant, when an earth shattering bang pierces our leafy suburban road.

“WHAT was THAT?!” I yelled in shock. “Yes, what WAS that?” he echoed. We both ran out to find the source (as all good neighbours would, naturally)

One of his beautiful, brand new tyres had taken such a beating with my shiny, fabulous pump, that it had popped in sheer horror at the volume of air proffered. Well, let’s face it .. too much of any good thing can overwhelm the best of us.

We did larrrrf ..

He’s now on his way back to the shop to complain about the ‘hopeless tyre.’

The accident had nothing to do with his handiwork of course.

But if he was looking for results, he’d have been better pressed using his bullish pumping skills on that first passing LearJet ..

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

How Do I Break The News To Her?

2009-07-31T06:00:00.002+01:00

I’ve never been my most sociable in the morning. Most especially on a day when I don't plan to rise early. I’m not one of those people who wakes with a wild-eyed smile or a manic spring in my step. I don’t hop like a jolly wallaby out of bed all bright and cheerful with an interest in what’s going on around me. Frankly, there could be squirrels eating the remains of last night’s dinner in my kitchen and a random burglar systematically packing my stuff from the living room into a white van marked “I’m stealing everything if anyone wants to watch.”

If I’m sleeping, I prefer to stay that way. I don’t require tea. Toast? No thanks. Just beautiful silence please. Message to all House Guests: If you want to be my friend, just leave me in a mole-like state for as long as possible. Get ragingly drunk at last night’s party. Pass out in my spare room or on floor cushions (or anything that’s handy to pass out on) … Leave my house in an almost irreversible state of order; but when you leave in the morning … Creep. Creep out of your makeshift beds … Creep to the kitchen to make your tea in whispering tones … Creep out of the front door (which you shall shut quietly) then text me to tell me I’m a wonderful hostess and that was simply the best night ever (I do enjoy unswerving retrospective gratitude by text, most especially because my phone sound will be switched to 'off 'and I can enjoy the praise later.)

Only one sweet little thing to remember. To this particular host? Bed is good. REALLY good.

So on a recent girlie night, when 3 stayed over, I couldn’t quite believe it when one girlfriend, before leaving at 6.30am … (after I’d crashed way later than her at 3am) knocked loudly on my bedroom door, not once, not twice, but repeatedly, in the style of a demented wood-pecker, until it not only woke me up but I had dragged myself, in a deeply unattractive, half-conscious state, to open the door.

As we faced each other, there was dear Melissa, bouncing off the walls with un-told energy, long blonde hair clean and washed, make up done, looking as glamorous as a Sex In the City-off-to-meet-a-man-for-lunch-type-dynamo.

I’m just glad she made my efforts worthwhile. As I muttered something pointless and incoherent, she proffered two immortal words: “Byyyye then!!!!!” while she waved and smiled like a nodding dolly.

She’s now on a life ban for sleep-overs ..

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

I'm Normal Again Now Everyone. Don't Panic!

2009-07-30T06:00:00.001+01:00

Well, that’s what my friend Rose’s cousin decided after she’d had a health scare. She had to endure minor surgery and some follow up treatment. After the operation, delighted with her speedy progress, she arrived home and announced happily to family and friends “It’s okay. All gone. They’ve taken away my Nymph nodes!”

What a relief. The male population of Kent is once again safe.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

It Gets Worse ...

2009-07-29T06:00:00.001+01:00

We laugh at our Irish inconsistencies but Mick has a lovely friend who hails from Spain. Her next door neighbour had a fire that kicked off in the garden – not a bonfire, a dangerous accidental fire - right by their adjoining fence. They found out later that it started from a random burning cigarette.

Puzzled by how this could have happened, and living 100 yards from a railway track and under the flight path to Heathrow, Mrs Spain turned to Mick and suggested …

“You know Meeeeck, I sink maybe zat cigarette maybe come frum a train … or maaaaybe Meeeeck, it was dropped out of a plane.” At this, she smiled broadly, satisfied she’d solved the mystery.

So who’s worse this week? The Irish or the Spanish …?

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

All In Good Taste ..

2009-07-28T06:00:00.001+01:00

A friend of mine has new neighbours. Last week a woman in her 40’s, wearing tight, peek-a-boo denim shorts, fishnet tights and patent red shoes was seen carrying - towards her patio - a large, plastic mauve and yellow flower the size of a Llelandi, decorated with an out-sized rubber bumble bee.

It’s good to know that poor taste in a woman’s fashion can at least run a theme and carry through to her household foliage ..

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Two Swigs Later ...

2009-07-27T06:00:00.002+01:00

My wonderful neighbour Mick: Builder extraordinaire, Hearty drinker of all things containing a suitable percentage of alcohol, Owner of Mobile Home … hopped into his ‘spare gaff’ a while back and grasped the first bottle of whiskey he could find when supplies ran out in the main residence.

Enjoying a few good swigs it took a minute or more before he realised that this particular malt tasted ‘a little off.’

After a suitably dreadful bodily reaction, his daughter remembered to mention that she’d taken an empty bottle from the kitchen, filled it with cleaning fluid and left it in the mobile home to keep the toilet bowl fresh.

Oh dear Lord he suffered. Say your hail Mary’s Micky. And next time, sniff the contents first!

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Simon's Had Another Bad Date

2009-07-24T06:00:00.001+01:00

Poor sod. It doesn’t get any better.

He invited a pretty teacher (from yet another internet dating site) to meet him at a local public house.

Being a gentleman, he arrived first and quietly read a newspaper, waiting for his date to arrive.

A few minutes late, she pitched up and he offered her a drink.

She put in her order and while he sauntered to the bar she sat and read his paper.

He returned with their drinks and she carried on reading his paper for another 10 minutes, without acknowledging him. Or the drinks.

He tried to make convivial conversation, but she didn’t respond.

He believed she’d knocked back a couple of drinks before arriving.

She continued to read.

Eventually they chatted. For a few minutes.

She finished her drink and left.

End of another romance then.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Tea Anyone?

2009-07-23T06:00:00.002+01:00

I was shopping in a Thai supermarket recently and came across this product with the most intriguing instructions on the side of the box …

Sliming Herb.
Indication:
This herb is good for the over-weighted person who
do not want to control food consuming and should
be taken both male and female one dose, 2 times daily
to be taken in the morning and before sleeping

TRANSLATION:

Slimming Herb.
Indication:
This herb is good for Bessy Bunters who
are too lazy to eat healthily and prefer
to stuff their faces with greasy chips, lardy
burgers, wads of cheese, piles of chocolates
and whose only exercise is to check their face
for spots and raise their right arm to knock back
a couple of these drinks a day to keep the pipes working

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

I'm Really Not Sure ...

2009-07-22T06:00:00.001+01:00

I’d better not mention the bank, but anyone reading this who works for them will know who they are …

Chatting in the banking hall of a High Street fave today, I got chatting to the girls with clipboards. They have a new ‘role’ in the company …Staff now have to take part in a rota to offer Customer Service to people needing assistance with banking queries while queuing for the tills.

What have the bosses, clearly over a few too many glasses of Rioja, decided to call the staff as they strut their banking stuff?

“Floor Walkers.”

I wonder if they’ve ordered the poles to complete the job …

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Itchy? You may be in a minute ...

2009-07-21T06:00:00.001+01:00

I heard on the radio not so long ago that it’s possible to Adopt An Ant ...

Yes, my beloved readers, there is a site out there (quite hilarious really) that caters to such whims.

Apparently there are 1 million ants to adopt, they all need homes and they make an ideal Christmas present. But best of all, it only costs £1 and for that you receive your adoption certificate with your ant’s name, age, personality, interests (I'm guessing that avoiding death from a size 12 foot would feature pretty highly) and all manner of information about ants. Great. Just what you wanted.

The flip-side of your onerous investment is that you can use your ant (have you ever heard of USING an ant? How disgraceful) .. Yes, for your £1 adoption fee you get to link your ant to any website of your choosing (ie your own.) The more ants you adopt (now it gets complicated) the higher up the ant-website list you are so the more see’s your website could get. The biggest investor to date is Mr No Name who’s invested a total of £6 and has no website link. What’s THAT about then? Does he genuinely just care about the little creepies?

If this very amusing site took off, someone could make a million quid from sending out Adoption Certificates for insects that don’t exist, but with a total profit to date of £69, minus the website development cost, the owner has only to convince another 99,9931 people that ants are worth their weight in £1’s to begin buying the bricks for his mansion in the country.

My only issue is that the website asks if you’re ‘redy’ to adopt (ouch!)
and invites you to:

“Adopt today and Become part of Internet History”

Shouldn’t that be … Anternet History?

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

She's Started Dating Again ...

2009-07-20T06:00:00.001+01:00

Well, that’s what one of my friends was ‘intending’ to do when she recently summoned up the courage to join a couple of internet dating sites.

A flit around the thumbnail photos and profiles didn’t proffer much hope, but a rather ‘portly and plain, yet interesting’ gentleman in his 50’s, after striking up correspondence with her, decided to bite the bullet and take things to the next step.

“Unless you’re butt ugly and fat” he wrote tenderly, “Send me your photo.”

End of one beautiful romance.

But not before my friend pointed out:

“He qualified on both counts himself. Anyone interested in him …? … Well, frankly, they should’ve gone to SpecSavers!”

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

A One-Off .. !

2009-07-17T06:00:00.001+01:00

The great British Eccentric must be celebrated!

This was the priceless view I caught from my car as I was momentarily stuck in stationary traffic on my way to a recent meeting ..

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Quel Horreur !!

2009-07-16T06:00:00.001+01:00

Dahhhlings! The most AWFUL thing has happened!

They’re dropping their ‘H’s’ in Knightsbridge ....

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Go on ... Indulge Me!

2009-07-14T23:47:00.007+01:00

I hereby promise not to post any more photos of cute dogs for a long time.

But honestly. Wouldn’t YOU stop a tuk-tuk and try to kidnap this little baby?

I think his name was George. And he really was the most snuggly buggly little puppy I ever saw.

I reckon he and Susie would breed the most delicious little babies and they only live a few shops apart. Watch this space for next spring’s news – I’m going to introduce them!!

Okay, Okay .. I have to pack them in before I keep my promise.

Hello to Poppy, one of my bestie’s new pups. She’s very very naughty. I may have tales to tell, but shan’t bore the boys with lots of fluffy photos. It’s time to post up some boysy stuff too ;-) .. This is my last girly moment this month. Honest!!

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Back to Thailand ... Susie and Me ...

2009-07-08T06:00:00.010+01:00

Susie … Sussing me out.

Susie … Checking me out more closely.

She loves me already ...

Why can’t men be this grateful ..... ?!

A little 'after play' ...

Exhausted.
And it took less than 10 minutes.

Familiar ...?

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Reflection ....

2009-07-07T21:04:00.008+01:00

Hardly ever put the TV on … no time! … Can’t knock the square little thing – but I love to listen to my LBC (in every room of the house!) and would rather see friends than watch a moving image on a box these days.

But earlier tonight I heard on the radio that the televised memorial to Michael Jackson was about to go ‘live.’ I decided to sit and watch, with no idea how it would play out.

A spectacular and a tribute. Some laughs at happy memories, but also very sad. I found the speech by Brooke Shields particularly moving. A reminder that we can all judge too easily when we don’t know a person well; often not at all.

This isn’t a platform for my deepest reflections, more a place for a smile … but whatever anyone thought of Michael Jackson, his passing was covered by the media world-wide and the man, the artist, no disputing, brought a great deal to our soil, despite his personal tribulations. With that in mind, and on impulse, I felt a need to reflect here today. I hope you don’t mind!

My brother Paul and I lost our other brother, Nigel, on December 23rd 1996. He was 31 when he passed. 13 years this Christmas and still an event like today brings everything back in clarity.

Time changes how you deal with loss but it doesn’t change the way you feel.
Loss can influence the choices you make, but doesn’t simply create an easy path.
An easy path is not the best way to learn about ourselves or others.
Learning is good. It allows us to strive to be the best we can, accept our mistakes and move forward.
Just as we wish to better our own lives, we can improve our relationships with people around us.
We don’t have to like everybody, but we can aim to work with, not against those closest at home and at work.
The most positive energy to emerge from a time of reflection is the desire to make an equally positive change.
Even one small change can make a difference. Maybe to you, maybe to a friend/colleague .. maybe to many.
Hey. I just shed a few tears ... but I have a good feeling in the old ticker!
RIP MJ.
Sending a hug and a smile to my readers :-)

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Karaoke Mystery

2009-07-06T06:00:00.004+01:00

Why ‘Deep’ Karaoke?'

Is the machine located in the basement?
Is there a ban on singing the high notes?
Or ... did I miss the point somehow … ??

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Local Charm

2009-07-03T06:00:00.003+01:00

I loved the little signs of mis-spelt English the Spa displayed at it’s various eateries and in their resident tuk tuk. This cute little board informing guests of what was and wasn’t available on the menu was propped precariously behind the restaurant service bar.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Embracing My Temporary Hippy-dom

2009-07-02T03:27:00.002+01:00

They assured me (in Thai) (I didn’t understand a word of course) that the Henna they used was absolutely safe. When in Rome dahhlings! So of course, I had to indulge in a little tattoo. Actually, it was HUGE … but wore off just before I flew home to UK to be normal again. Well, as normal as a clown ever gets ;-)

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Man With a Big Snake

2009-07-01T06:00:00.001+01:00

Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, that clown walks into mine …

Relaxing at the most incredible restaurant near to our hotel on our last night in Bangkok, utterly exhausted from our non-stop ‘must-see-everything-immediately’ gallivanting … a clown bounced over to twist us some balloon models and remind me why I don’t over-do my make-up when I go to work.

My friend Mark, bless him, was utterly chuffed with his snake charmer hat. If only to embarrass him, I have to post it up here. HOW pleased can one man be with a snake on his head???

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Yup, It's That River Again ..

2009-06-30T06:00:00.001+01:00

Let's play: “Where’s Freddy the Frog?”

Somewhere in this photo of a typical river-side home is an unexpected object.

Did you find him?!

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

We're still in the River ..

2009-06-29T06:00:00.001+01:00

We couldn’t quite work out what this construction worker was trying to achieve, but given his position .. and that of the rather enormous digger directly above his head .. we felt he’d probably be better off keeping his eye on the job …

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Per-Lease!! There are ladies present!

2009-06-26T06:00:00.001+01:00

Final afternoon in our Eastern City and we take a leisurely boat ride along some of the many winding canals that snake in and out of the Chao Praya river.

A humbling experience. Abject poverty along-side contemporary riches; the lack of divide stark. No sight of the wealthy, but the poor wash, play and work in and on the river - laughing and waving to every passer by; no sign of the tedium of constant prying eyes; just beautiful smiles.

However, it can’t be said that the local four legged variety give such a delightful welcome.

He could have made a little more effort, don’t you think??

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

KJ'S Finest Moment

2009-06-25T06:00:00.001+01:00

There we were at site of The Reclining Buddha, which offers a plethora of other amazing buildings aside from the one in which the Buddha takes his rest (!) and we happen upon a group of monks leaving a prayer session. KJ reminds me to wait and allow them all to pass. But she is SO cheeky that she can’t resist teasing. Ever so loudly she whispers to me “Let the monks pass. Let the monkeeees pass,” delivered with a huge grin.

One of the monks inevitably over-heard her audible instructions, turned around and with an expression on his face as cheeky as KJ’s best, shouted out “Yes, let the monkeeee’s pass!” then giggled all the way out of sight.

I just managed to catch this photo as he spoke to us. Don’t you just LOVE him?!

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

So I'm in Bangkok ...

2009-06-24T06:00:00.005+01:00

During Easter, I travelled far to go on a little health-kick holiday. On the way to my Spa retreat though, some must-see sights in Bangkok. We arrived just as the up-rising started. Although the International News was reporting much trouble, while we were in the City it was a peaceful protest and posed no threat to tourists or city dwellers.

In fact, I have to say, in advance of my Thai stories and photos, that I adored the Thai people. I love my country, but we Westerners could learn much from them, with their gentle manner and general courtesies. Day to day dealings offer no outward aggressions; you see nobody arguing in public on mobile phones or in shops and restaurants. Although the City is known for it’s buzz, Bangkok is a paradox of itself. The heaving, high speed traffic sits at odds with the pace of the footfall. Take a step back and view as if through a movie lens and the streets appear to move at dual speed. A vibrant energy coated with a sense of calm.

Off I went to see The Grand Palace one afternoon, one of the most magnificent sights in Bangkok. Acres of breath-taking architecture, colour and interior design. See here just one beautiful temple amongst hundreds. I fell in love with these flowers!

I'm sure I employed the funniest guide in Bangkok. Introducing KJ. (She's based at the Palace. You have to ask for her. She amused me for 4 hours!)

She promised to make her tour the exact length of time I requested. I asked for 1 hour at the palace (you can spend half a day but there was much else I wanted to take in besides) … This lady talked at almost illegible, lightening speed (until I gently reminded her to repeat herself slowly which she did with great comic timing) and whisked me around the grounds, often holding my camera with me whilst pushing me into strange shapes to ensure I had “The riiiii’angle” for every photo.

Amongst her many stories she pointed out a building that played host to some of Bangkok’s finest and most recent celebrations.

"Famous people from all over the world were here to be with The King for his 80th birthday,” she assured me. “Queen Elizabeth came. Bill Clinton too. But he didn't bring Monica.” (She followed this revelation with a delighted high pitched, speedy cackle)

She warned my friend and I not to ask for a heavy massage or we'd end up looking like this:

She also pointed to artwork of hideous gargoyles and promised me my next boyfriend would look like the ugliest of the bunch (cue: high pitched speedy cackle.)

She charged more than the all the other local guides, whisking me off on a random tuk-tuk to see The Reclining Buddha et al, but as promised was “Wurf the extra baht. I better!” And she certainly was. Comedy and history go so well together ..

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Life's a Beach

2009-06-23T06:00:00.005+01:00

I still enjoy recalling carefree hot summers as a youngster spent blissfully on one of our finest south coast beaches.

The routine each morning was to set off from the flat ahead of mother, leaving her to prepare the picnic lunch and tea. Golden sands being only a few minutes walk along a busy public pathway, it was safe for myself, two brothers and various friends to find our way to the beach hut alone.

It wasn’t that we weren’t provided with any sun cream – although, of course, the public warnings of sun damage weren’t as prevalent back then – it just seemed more decadent to bake a little and enjoy our peeling skin later. (Shhh! I know I shouldn’t say this, but wasn’t peeling FUN?!!) (My mother did try to protect us as soon as she was present and committed, but while mother’s make sandwiches, children rebel ..)

One morning, encouraged by her instruction to “Apply cream all over before you go in the sun please” .. I decided that it would be much more interesting to slavver my siblings and friends with the pound of butter that had been left in the beach hut fridge for our favourite beans on toast tea.

I honestly believed that it would protect but, at the same time, give us a wonderful golden glow.

Or did I? Because the only thing I failed to do was to apply the same butter to my own fair skin.

By midday, I was surrounded by 2 burnt siblings, 3 fried friends and a parent demanding to know why I was the only one who’d escaped the ‘treatment.’ I can’t bluff that I had a particularly engaging or convincing answer, but I did run fast and I’m pretty sure I didn’t get my beans on toast that evening. And … as they say …. “What goes around, comes around.” Year’s later I skipped over to Greece on my first ‘holiday abroad’ with friends, failed to slavver anything substantial over my whiteness (I really was as bright as a swan back then) and spent 2 days in bed with 3rd degree burns and sunstroke. What do they call it? Sweet justice? About 10 years too late.

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk/

Give us a Twirl

2009-06-22T06:00:00.003+01:00

“Has she got her Twirly Bus Pass?” David asked his mate, as Gary’s Granny left to catch the bus to her night of Bingo.

“Twirly?!” Gary looked puzzled.

“Yea-eah!” impressed Dave. “She’s the same as all of them Gary. Before they board at the garage they always ask the driver …. “Am I t’wirly?”

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Trust Me. I'm a Singer.

2009-03-24T06:00:00.011Z

Singing in pubs is an interesting way to make a living. Not easy. But interesting. I did it for a number of years in my late twenties, early thirties and enjoyed everything the pub trade and it’s ‘clientele’ can offer. Let’s just say it’s both a test of metal and a solid grounding in ‘how to cope with anything on stage.’

I once had my sound system switched off at the socket by a customer just as I hit the top note of a spine tingling ballad, to the roar of amusement from his gang of friends.

I had a drunken group collect an eighth of a glass full of one and two pence pieces and present it to me with the accolade: “That’s how much you were worth tonight Luv.” Thankfully another table were roaring to my support (a little like having a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other ..)

I turned up to venues untold times to be informed “We never booked you in the first place.”

After filling a pub with customers and slogging through 2 solid hours of non-stop singing amidst constant support and cheers from the crowd, I’ve been offered only half my fee and told by the proprietor, “See ya!” while regulars booked me a space at their table to enjoy a hearty drink to calm my frustrations!

I’ve sung to a row of backs all night. Nothing wrong with a good back ;-)

I’ve performed in an all but empty bar, with just two bored people in the far corner sporting nylon cardigans and staring vacantly into their beer glasses while I swung my microphone wildly above my head in a circular motion, shouting “Thank you WEMBLYYYYYYYYYYYYYY!”

I’ve danced the hopscotch over various pub patterned carpets as I’ve warbled rock’n’roll (for my own amusement)

I’ve even sung “One more song to go, One more song of sorrow, One more song in this old dump and I won’t be coming back tomorrow” without a soul noticing my lyrics.

It was tougher and more enjoyable (in it’s own way) than any school education.

But every job offers it’s highlights.

I’ve seen a proper, real, pub cat-fight. (I’m not supporting them, but I honestly never thought they really happened. Worst still, everybody formed a circle around the two women and treated it like a boxing match!)

I’ve tasted the best meat from Michael the sausage maker (“I make the best sausages in the country. No worrrrrd of a lie!")

I’ve watched Romeo the Rapper (part-time stage name) rap his way to a room full of boo’s and act like he’d just conquered Hollywood (bless)

I’ve been given seconds from a clothing factory and waltzed around in new clothes that you wouldn’t know had a fault. (my East End customers were always so generous to me)

I’ve sung in a gay pub where a guy filed his nails with an emery board by the bar as the girls asked for my phone number.

And I’ve finished a gig standing on a bench seat in a tiny country pub with the room pumping and Jimmy White, snooker king from yester-year, sporting a white suit and surrounded by a bevy of beautiful girls.

You never know what will happen on ‘the circuit’ ..

But I never got to Wembley.

Well, that’s not strictly true.

I’ve been there to see Cliff Richard (Stop it. I didn’t buy the tickets!) .. Midge Ure. More recently Bruce Springsteen (please … someone get me near him) and Billy Idol (When his hair was bleached blonde and all sticky-uppy and we were still wearing shoulder pads)

So the nearest I ever did get to the stage at Wembley was when I tried to worm my way past the bouncers to get closer to Billy.

Fluttering my eyelids at the nearest one, I was firmly advised: “We’ve let better looking birds through than YOU Luv.”

And the barrier was firmly kept in place ...

http://www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

I've Never Given Birth, But I'm Sure This Was Worse

2009-03-23T06:00:00.004Z

To save money on an audition fee, I once travelled from London to Manchester on a coach.

Having not been blessed with the strongest travel constitution, I have fought but still always had trouble, with a range of issues:

I have to sit in the front of a car and look forward. Not down. Or left. Or right.
I have to sit facing the rear of a train and travel backwards (I need to see the scenery fading gently in one piece before me, not racing by in 120 mile per hour gut churning frames) ..
I’m fine on a plane (except that I’m sure I will die).
Buses? Not a problem until a crazy Greek driver is racing round precipitous rock faces without regard for emotive faces or human life.
Boats. Let’s not go there. (I once had a beach full of children laughing as I clambered queasily off a pedalo six feet from the shore).

I know. It’s not good.

So two hours into a five hour coach journey which hadn’t afforded me a front row seat, I was beginning a rather personal struggle.

First my lunch tasted a little strange. Then my face faded to a paler shade of white. Gradually, at around the four hour mark, I was green and not a million minutes away from upsetting fellow passengers.

In a surge of raw fear, I stumbled to the front of the coach, clutching seats with each lurching step.

“Please, may I swap seats with you?” I asked a front row hogger.

No response.

“Please?” I implored. And after the briefest explanation of what was the inevitable if I received a no, the passenger moved at the speed of light and I spent the next hour trying to sway in the direction of the bus (not the opposite way, as we all do when we’re not driving). You’ll only know how difficult this is to do if you’ve tried it!

Then, oh dear, it all got the better of me. I had to pop to the ‘little room’ at the back of the coach. And boy was it little. It was so incredibly small that you couldn’t actually put your feet on the ground and just as I managed to sit myself on the lid and rest my head over the sink, with my legs in the air, the bus negotiated an unbelievable series of non-stop roundabouts. It was as much as I could do to hold onto the porcelain and not knock myself out.

I arrived at the audition in a terrible state. At least twenty beautiful people lined the ante room, waiting to be seen and filmed. Still shaky, and more concerned about my stomach than learning my lines, I hurled myself into the audition without a stroke of nerves.

The team laughed. They laughed more. They challenged me to try different styles of comedy. One doubled up laughing as I launched from one accent to another, gesticulating, acting, lost in my own little world, as they worked on determining that I wasn’t a ‘one trick pony.’

“That was very funny. But can you do it in a Russian accent now please?”

“Dahhhhlings, I’ll do any accent you want” I promised (Untruthfully. I’m absolutely rubbish at them!)

“After the journey I’ve had I don’t care what you put me through!” I rambled on.

It was the only time in my life I beat the A-list auditionees to a job. Weeks later, during filming, I asked why they’d chosen me.

“Because you were the only person who was yourself.” Apparently, they’d favoured one other girl over me, but as much as they tried to help her improve her piece, she couldn’t relax. It had happened to me so many times before. I felt for her.

But at least I then knew that a £17 coach ride from hell was better than a Valium pill.

All line up at Victoria Station!

I took a £60 train ride home.

Travelling backwards ...

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

He's At it Again!

2009-03-20T06:00:00.002Z

Eugene, for all his odd job disasters, was rather a character and tended to spend the majority of his time drunk and quietly disorderly. I’m told he caused no harm and was somewhat an amusement to the locals. However this didn’t prevent him from ending up in the Magistrate's court on a number of occasions.

One particular day, a German man who’d been caught shop-lifting locally was in the dock. The Magistrate was having trouble communicating, since the man-in-question spoke no English. Seeking assistance, he addressed the court “Could anybody please interpret?”

“To be sure!” piped up Eugene, waiting to be seen for his own recent misdemeanours.

Grateful for the help the Magistrate asked him “Please can you ask the gentleman what his name is?”

Turning to his new subject, Eugene articulated loudly and expressively “VOT IS YOUR NAAAAAME?”

Unperturbed by his misplaced comedy, he later confidently stepped to the plate to be judged himself.

With gravity and not a little frustration, the Magistrate asked the builder “Mr Finnegan. This is the fifth time you’ve appeared before me this year. What do you have to say for yourself?”

Fumbling in his pocket, Eugene pulled out a box of matches, held it upright in front of him, pushed the inside box up into the air, grinned and shouted “Beam me up Scottieeee!”

He was invited to spend two custodial months considering his Trekky devotion.

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

There's No Smoke Without Fire

2009-03-19T06:00:00.005Z

Eugene was busy re-pointing a chimney for a local resident.

Eugene was one of the best known Irish odd job men around Coventry.

The job was done with great efficiency, at high speed and with no fuss.

Until, that is, a week later, when the town suffered a day of the most terrible rain.

“Eugene!” his most recent client bristled down the phone.

“Mr Patel! To be sure, to be sure. How can I help?”

“Please can you return to my house and re-point my chimney immediately!” (He wasn’t a happy bunny, Mr Patel)

Of course until that moment he’d failed to realise that a week before, his whistling workman hadn’t actually indulged in even a minute’s re-pointing. He had simply wrapped wallpaper decked in a brick design around the chimney and sellotaped it on!

As soon as the rain warped the covering, the sellotape had come loose and the wallpaper (re-pointing job) was left flapping limply in the wind.

You’ve got to admire the man for being so cheeky ..?

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Toffee Von Tees

2009-03-18T06:00:00.007Z

Sometimes there is no real benefit in sharing, except that a moment has tickled you so much you just can’t keep it to yourself.

So. Please enjoy Toffee in her T-shirt ...

Oh. And here’s Toffee doing a ‘Deeta ...

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

I Need a Small One (But Don't Tell Anybody)

2009-03-17T06:00:00.005Z

I popped down to the Sorting Office today. Waiting patiently in the queue I chatted leisurely with the lady in front of me about the benefits of furry bicycle seat coverings (another customer left on a bike with just such a gorgeous thing; grey and rather like a fluffy elephant ear)

Talking of which, Nirvana! I have grumbled for years about the earpieces that accompany new mobile phone packs. Always sure they were made solely for people with elephantine appendages I have talked only under duress, ears pounding from the size of the rounded, be-foamed knobby bit that you have to push into your orifice in order to chat. Pain? Oh please. Tell me I’m delicate, tell me I’m petite (my family wouldn’t agree with either) but I’ve truly lost track of the number of conversations cut short on account of a throbbing ear cavity.

Imagine my undiluted joy when a new Blackberry arrived last week with not one, not just two, but three, yes no less than THREE different sized foam caps to slot onto the earpiece. A phone provider has finally realised how much distress they have caused not only me, but squillions of people with teeny extremities.

So delighted was I with such an array of choice, with gay abandon, no size check and ridiculous gusto - whilst laughing only a little bit manically - I threw the huge pair straight into the bin, slipped on the weeny pair and left them in my handbag.

Joy to horror when next day I made my first hands free phone call and the cutesy little pair slipped straight out of my cavity. I’m medium sized after all!! (I think) … Well, I haven’t changed the fitting yet and am now worried that the over-sized one has been reduced from the original and I may need back what the bin men have already permanently claimed.

Anyway, the lady in front of me at the Sorting Office finally took her place at the counter. As she dragged the most enormous parcel through the slimmest gap, a staff member behind the glass asked “I.D.?”

“Oh. I’m not Heidi!” she looked worried.

I tapped her gently on the shoulder as the queue giggled warmly.

“She wants your I.D. She doesn’t think you’re Heidi.”

And off she tripped with her early Mothers Day flowers. (Or was it Austin Powers?)

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Look Out For Mutating Grand-Children

2009-03-16T06:00:00.001Z

Mother and I enjoy a chat on the phone every few days. Or should I say, I enjoy a chat and she listens. (Isn’t that mostly the way with parents?!)

“How are things?” is usually greeted with the normal responses: It’s a grotty day on the coast, dad’s at the office, I’m seeing the girl’s for lunch.

However last week when I asked “How are you?” she laughed and told me “I’m radio-active!”

Having been to the hospital for a check-up CT scan, she was informed not to visit her grand-children for a week, or if she did, to avoid touching them and to sit at least as far away as the other end of the sofa.

She was also issued with a Government Medical Card that stated what a nuclear mess she is currently in and was instructed to carry the card on her person until all mutating rays have subsided. It contains her name, date of birth (how indiscreet!) and an accompanying note declaring that she is an administrator of radio-active material.

How decent of the hospital to make it so official.

My only concern is that if she doesn’t wear plastic gloves while cooking my father’s breakfast eggs, she may turn him into a south coast version of E.T.

Which reminds me. I must ‘phone home.’

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Thank you dahhhhhhling!

2009-03-13T06:00:00.002Z

“I bought you a new car darling …” he smiled warmly. “Come outside.”

“Darling, how amaaaaaazing!” she exclaimed, eager to view her sporty new motor.

As they reach the garden gate, he handed over a delicately wrapped parcel. Her face took in the first gift.

“Oh!” another excited exclamation from Mrs Birthday, as she tore the paper off what must be hiding those Mercedes keys.

See below what my friend’s husband bought her ..

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

2009-03-12T06:00:00.001Z

Hmmmmm … Puppies, however gorgeous, are not best known for their sense of control.

Popping to my local newsagents for the Sunday papers one week-end I was arrested by the sight of one of the cutest little ginger pups I ever did see.

I parked and immediately indulged in a love-in session on the pavement with my new friend Hooch. So cute was he that I completely smothered him with kisses and cuddles. So excited was he that he excused himself all over brand new my boots!

Take a look at this heart-stopping photo of the moment I fell in love!! I kept meaning to put this photo into a ‘doggie-photo-competition’ … Do you think Hooch would win?!

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

2009-03-11T06:00:00.003Z

I’m not saying this is how I tend to forge ‘life-long’ friendships, but after a particularly testing time one year, I decided to hop on a last minute flight alone, destination decided on arrival.

Late at night I was sent to an apartment, near enough to the beach, somewhere on mainland Greece. Fair enough. Except on landing I wondered what on earth I’d done, delivered to a quiet town – mid April - and not in the greatest of moods.

Waking to a bright sun the following morning I heard howls of laughter from the apartment next door. I wasn’t feeling perky enough to seek out the source and spent a quiet day chatting by the shore to a girl I’d sat next to during the flight who’d been posted to a nearby block.

The next morning I heard the same howls of laughter from my neighbours.

Curiosity bettered me and stepping onto the balcony, I looking right to see two girls in stitches.

“What’s the joke girls?” I asked, laughing with them. “This has been going on for two mornings now.”

“Take a look at what she’s eating!” one of the girls spluttered, pointing towards her friend’s breakfast.

I peered over the ledge.

Totally disorganised, the girls had arrived at the apartment to an empty fridge, got somewhat trolleyed the previous two nights and only remembered to buy booze and cereal to stock the kitchen. There also appeared to be a distinct lack of crockery present, so there was Becky eagerly eating cornflakes, smothered in gin, out of a dry frying pan.

We followed that encounter with a week of laughing both on the beach and over dinner. We’ve now been friends for over twelve years.

I never took to gin, but she was certainly my tonic!

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Two Snails Caught Snogging on a Local Doorstep

2009-03-10T06:00:00.002Z

Yes, that one is true …. but it wasn’t on Facebook!

I took the photo below as I passed by ‘true love …’

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

This is Getting Out of Hand ...

2009-03-09T06:00:00.003Z

The latest message to greet me on the front page of Facebook (a website, as you know if you’re a follower of this blog, that I rarely use but for nosing at friend’s photos) … tells me this:

ALERT! You have (7) new LOVE NOTES (2 from your list of friends)
2 PEOPLE HAVE A CRUSH ON YOU FROM NEWMARKET
AND GUESS WHAT??? (ok, it didn’t have this line)

3 PEOPLE HATE YOU

Hello? Who are all these people? I categorically know that none of my friends would send me a love note. They’d sooner send me to hell.

But Hate?? What’s the gig?

Oh Gosh.

I’ve just realised.

I deleted a couple of weirdies (the hoodie-skeleton-hugger et al) … Perhaps they’ve now started a hate campaign, born out of rejection by a stranger?

What next?? : TWO SNAILS CAUGHT SNOGGING ON A LOCAL DOORSTEP?

I’ll keep you posted …

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

2009-03-06T06:00:00.006Z

I have a habit of collecting photos of dogs. I'm a sort of ‘dog stalker.’

When I’m dressed as a clown (aka: Jilly JamJar) it’s fine. I can get away with just about anything. But when I’m plain, little old me, it’s perceived as a slightly more eccentric past-time.

I can’t help it though. I really do love canines and luckily, the owner of this particular mutt allowed me to photograph his fine Rastafarian specimen from my stalled car, with window down, in a supermarket car park. He patiently attempted to get the dog to model for me but I couldn’t quite catch his face. Check out the body hair though.

Apparently, not so long ago, Naomi Campbell’s ‘people’ asked for his appearance at a photo shoot abroad. But just as some models won’t get out of bed for less than a huge fee, this baby wasn’t offered his due quota .. so daddy turned them down.

Respect ... !

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Don't Try This at Home. No, Really. Please Don't ..

2009-03-05T06:00:00.002Z

A varied career in entertainment can include working as an assistant to a magician, wearing a skimpy costume and a 3 foot feather head-dress. In my twenties, I was the proud wearer of such a hat and along with my fishnets, would plonk around on-stage (it was a comedy act) ribbing the ‘main man’ who delighted in performing various tricks:

1. Elevating a woman into the air from a plank held between two chairs (she would always slide to the ground. Remember, this was comedy) ..

2. Walking up 15 swords with bare feet (don’t get me wrong, it was clever but the tips of the blades he allowed the audience to touch-test were killer sharp whereas the edges of the long blade of the sword were nicely rounded to protect his delicate soles. Having said that, if he’d slipped on the way up, legs 2 feet apart, it wouldn’t have been the most pleasant of sights as he dropped down in a y-shape with a sword splicing his lower regions)

I’ve gone off-track.

The point is .. I wasn’t a very good assistant. The highlight of the show was fire eating and my task was to ensure that the props (sticks with thick swabs of fabric wrapped around the tips) were placed at the back of a small stage table in a pint glass filled with paraffin. At a crucial moment, I had to remove them from the glass, shake them discreetly to rid the swab of all excesses of paraffin, smile and hand them over.

During one show I was so busy wiggling and enjoying the excesses of our comedy that I completely forgot to shake the sticks. We all know that paraffin is a horribly dangerous liquid and as the boss ingited the sticks with his cigarette lighter they went up in what can only be described as a ridiculously huge flame. Unbelievably, he bravely continued the act but was now wrestling with a fireball so large that it could have consumed his head, let alone been put out by his diddy little mouth.

At this point I started to worry (but stupidly still didn’t realise what I’d done!) … After the show he stomped around rather angrily while we all slipped back into more suitable attire.

“Do you know what you did?” he asked exasperated.

“Ummm …. No,” I wasn’t popular at this point.

“You didn’t shake the sticks, the paraffin caused a fireball and I have blistered my entire lips and tongue.”

I know I said more than “Oops” in response, but disgracefully I, and the other assistant laughed rather too hard as well. Well he wasn’t seriously injured and when we looked closer, his pout looked like better than a botox top up. And you don’t get that kind of freebie too often, do you?

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

You Can't Beat the Irish!

2009-03-04T06:00:00.001Z

Born of part Irish stock, I believe I have license to laugh with fondness at their quirkiness and accents .. ?

A friend’s granny would often get her words in a muddle after a few sherries at Christmas. Singing the carol: 'God Bless you Merry Gentlemen,' the lyrics swiftly turned into: “God Bless you Gerry Mentalmen” ..

But you have to worry about taking drunken grannies out in public when they can’t describe an old vinyl record properly:
”Oh George. Now remember to bring that record home with you. The big one. Tirty tree and a turd …”

But I reckon one of my gran’s friends summed it up when she asked a relation:

“How far it is if you walk to Mary’s house then, Anna?”

“That’ll be three miles Peggy.”

“Oh?” she looked confused. “And how far is it if you drive there?”

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

It's Reassuring To Discover That You're Not The Only Kid on The Block

2009-03-03T06:00:00.005Z

One of my brothers had a peculiar habit as a youngster. In the days when Polos were the King of Mints, he would proffer them round while challenging us to a mud eating contest. Yes. That’s mud.

The game consisted of holding your mint from the lower part of the rim and piling as much mud on top of the sweet without it toppling back to the daffodil or willow tree that it had formally been supporting.

Next part was to pop the minty delight in your mouth. The winner was the first person who could chew and swallow the entire ensemble. And keep it down!

Of course my brother always won. Mostly because nobody else much enjoyed eating mud but felt obliged to pretend to take part in this bizarre little ritual, only to expect the predictable whoops of success from the triumphant competitor.

As odd as that seems, I have to admit that at the tender age of approximately 7 and thereafter, I did used to sneak with Isabelle (best friend at the time, two doors away) into her parent’s garage and compete to see who could eat the most dog biscuits (clearly bought in bulk from some local discount store; the bags were huge) …

These strange little games only came to mind because yesterday someone told me that his granny used to coat his tongue with mustard when he was little, to prevent him from swearing. All it did for him (it certainly didn’t stop the occasional blaspheme) was to give him a love of Colman’s.

And that brings me to another confession. Does anybody else here see the appeal in a chunk of fresh French bread, coated with a thick layer of salted English butter and topped with a thin dusting of our best English Mustard?

Just me then …. ?

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Would You Strip? Only the Paint on My Walls Luv ..

2009-03-02T06:00:00.006Z

Back to those pub days again. So much happens in London and the suburbs ..

One thing I was never warned of was when a ‘strip-o-gram’ had been booked for a punter. First knowledge would be when a lone female would slink in and I’d hear a group of men whooping in a corner. I was usually then asked if someone could borrow my mike (it honestly wasn’t worth trying to sing through a strip) and allow a member of staff or the public to announce the goings-on or make a running commentary.

I saw this as a welcome break and would sit back and wonder how any woman has the confidence to disrobe in a public bar.

One particular night in the suburbs I remember a roly-poly-o-gram had been booked by a bunch of young guys celebrating their friend’s 21st. In marched (and she really did march) a tank of a woman wearing a button down dress and a scowl.

A circle of amused drinkers formed around her, including the lucky birthday boy. She grabbed my mike with such confidence and resolve I wouldn’t have dared resist. A short introduction later, having voiced her intention to ‘get’ the birthday boy, she thrust the microphone into a random nearby hand and with one movement, un-popped all her poppers from neck to thigh (the dress was clearly especially designed for a quick show ..) and walked towards her target with purpose.

I have truly never seen a man run so fast. He didn’t just leg it away from the outer circle. He was last seen sprinting from the pub and down the main road faster than Daley Thompson.

I guess that’s what you call an unforgettable birthday …?

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

It Can Only Get Better ...

2009-02-27T06:00:00.001Z

I have a few ‘bad luck’ stories of ‘varied career’ moments … and another just sprung to mind.

I was a singer for five years from the late 80’s and since I worked mainly in pubs I didn’t bother to call to doubly confirm a gig once it was in the diary. It was always safer to just pitch up and hope they’d keep to their word, allow you in and pay you at the end of the night.

My most striking memory of arriving at work one evening was when I pitched up to a local pub and not only was the landlord not there, but nor was the building. They’d pulled it down a week before and no-one had bothered to cancel the entertainment. I guess the demolition was entertaining enough.

Happy days.

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

A Suitcase, A Salesman and A Dodgy Bumper

2009-02-26T06:00:00.002Z

For reasons of personal safety (or just basic honourable discretion) I won’t mention names, but back in the late 80's I worked briefly for what I believed at the time to be a respectable Property Agency in London’s Docklands. The owner, a man of ‘character’ shall we say, had apparently been involved in a variety of trades, made a million every time and followed each success with a spell living at Her Majesty’s Pleasure. Who knows if all this was true but I do clearly remember a surreptitious atmosphere in the office and the company cars were certainly less than desirable; the drivers – the various young staff - being even less competent on the road than the motors.

On one occasion I recall emerging from the Rotherhithe tunnel, after a lengthy wait in traffic under the river, to see an orange vehicle blocking the road, resting peacefully on it’s roof. As my colleague later busily informed the rest of the team about the silly fool who’d clearly got away without a scratch but ruined a perfectly cute little old banger, the driver pushed open the office door and apologised to the boss about his latest ‘roll-over.’

Another day I dropped a colleague off for a hair appointment (not strictly scheduled into our timetable) moments before performing a nifty 3 point turn in a side road. I can’t deny I heard a crunching sound as I reversed the car, but it wasn’t a worrying crunching sound, so I continued forward.

Next thing I saw a young woman waving at me from the pavement. I couldn’t understand why she wanted my attention so I waved back that I was ok and cracked on into 2nd gear. She continued waving and jogged alongside me. I overtook her, but glancing left again I noticed her distress so I stopped, opened the window and asked what she needed.

“You dropped something,” she looked concerned.

“That’s strange” I thought. I hadn’t even got out of the car!

She reached down and stood up again like a weight-lifter, holding above her head a huge piece of plastic in her hands.

“Would you like your bumper back?”

“Oh, might as well. Thanks!” I replied sunnily as she pulled open a rear door and chucked it onto the back seat. I drove off confident that at least I had all component parts on board, even if they weren’t exactly in the right place.

My property magnate career ended rather abruptly. Approximately four weeks after it began.

It happened after a visit to a development/building site with a male member of staff. We thought it was ever so clever of the people ahead of us to drive their car slowly under a hose pipe that was gushing out at high level. Following their lead, we did the same as we reached the spot, only to find that instead of washing another of our company cars to shiny chic, the water found it’s way rather rapidly into both passenger wells. As I said, dodgy motors. I drove back to the office barefoot (it really was very deep) and my colleague and I crept in and resumed desk duties quietly. We must have looked immensely guilty because it wasn’t long before Mr Boss briefly disappeared out front and returned none too thrilled with our vigorous ‘cleaning efforts.’ He promptly sent us out in shifts (my turn, his turn) with a bucket and a cloth, until we’d mopped and perspired sufficiently to leave the flooded car damp but still rather odorous.

One whole afternoon of hard labour later, he thanked me for my efforts, then promptly sacked me. Now what kind of justice was that for my squeezing efforts?!

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Deaf Dogs .. and Forks

2009-02-25T06:00:00.007Z

Ever given your pet an unsuitable tag? I know a dog called Spliff. Not the best name if you’re one of those unfortunate people who drives badly and gets stopped by police.

Then there’s the friend who’s named her latest miniature Yorkshire Terrier: Toffee. Her next dog, still to be chosen, has already been named Apple. It’s not fair to the dogs, is it.

But sadly, the most ironic was a dog belonging to a family I knew of vaguely many years ago. A beautiful bull terrier called Happy.

He ran away and never returned.

Not that happy then …

On a lighter note: It would be fair to say that it doesn’t really matter what you call a dog when it’s deaf.

As Rikki grew older (one of two family miniature poodles from my youth; I know, don’t comment .. they were popular in the 60’s) he developed a hearing problem that didn’t hamper his life at all. Frankly, having lived for thirteen years with a family noisier than a Concorde take-off, he seemed perfectly relieved to have lost his hearing facility.

The only way to gain a response from him was to stand within a reasonable distance of his warty little frame and jump up and down. Vibrations always did the trick, but when you spoke to him his face would remain beautifully blank because he still couldn’t hear, so the whole communication process became pretty fruitless.

In dog years he lived way longer than granny and survived our Doberman lovingly taking his whole head within his huge jaws at play-time. He was brave and resolute in the face of old age and the only thing he was missing was a regular minty mouth wash. His sad demise came shortly after developing a habit of walking gently but continuously into walls (a sort of treadmill effect) on account of his poor sight, bless him. Not his fault. Just like being forgetful isn’t a pregnant woman’s fault …

Yesterday I took my nephews out for an afternoon of monkeying around. On the way home in the car I mentioned to them that women expecting babies are very forgetful (their mum is five months gone) .. My four year old nephew immediately piped up:

“I know, because mummy is very forgetful.”

“Really? Is she poppet?” I showed interest.

“Yes. Yesterday she gave me a yoghurt and didn’t put in the spoon.”

“Oh. What an awful mummy,” I agreed.

“She gave me a fork,” he concluded.

And we’ve still 4 months to go. I guess it’s going to be an interesting time for them …

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Love Me, Love my Ex

2009-02-24T06:00:00.005Z

Simon doesn’t have much luck with dating (See 10th Feb post ‘Women aren’t the only ones who get confused’) …

Shortly after he regaled me with his ‘shortest ever date’ story, he confessed that an earlier ‘exchange’ hadn’t gone too well either.

In fact, to be frank, it was even less successful than his 30 second date!

Engaging on the internet is always a bit of a lottery isn’t it? I mean, you don’t know if you’ll be getting what it says on the tin until you meet and chat face to face with someone, do you? So I guess all internet daters have to be aware that it’s a hit’n’miss game.

So Simon’s ‘potential date’ previous to the hairdresser from Barnet (do you think she deliberately went into that profession just for the comedy connection? You keeping up?!) … was Margaret. Lovely woman, long blonde hair, cheerful and convivial by email.

Taking the next step, a phone call was in order and Simon engaged in his own endearing fashion: “You look lovely in your profile photograph. So happy,” he exclaimed. (Remember, compliments haven’t been gaining him brownie points so far)

“So I should be. That was taken 6 months ago on my wedding day,” came the swift reply.

Bit of a conversation stopper when you’re attempting to book a date in.

“Right,” Simon faltered. “So … you’re married?”

“No, we divorced 6 months later, just recently. We were together for 8 years but as soon as we married, it didn’t work out.”

It wasn’t really getting better at this stage, but she pressed on positively.

“Look, we could meet in the Holloway Road this week if you like. Maybe a drink and some food at Weatherspoons? My ex might be there.”

Simon stopped at this point to consider if her suggestion was marginally more attractive than wearing a shirt made of horse hair and being dragged around town behind a grubby, splintered cart. And it wasn’t. So a brief thanks but no thanks and off he went to order the shirt, beat his head against the nearest kitchen cupboard for fun and ask his boxing instructor to knock some sense into his dating tactics.

Better luck next time Simon! (I wonder how many more disasters he’ll be telling me … He’s clearly currently on a roll)

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

I Dont Want Strangers To See Me Naked

2009-02-23T06:00:00.008Z

I live in a cottage that is only yards from a pavement and I’ve been left with a tragic dilemma. Nets, as most of us know, are utterly utterly horrid but what does a girl do when she loves a nose but needs privacy too?

If I don’t cover my lower window in some fashion my living room immediately transforms into a huge goldfish bowl. With the world and his mother-in-law walking past every few minutes, I’m unable to sit at my desk looking ragged in pyjamas, red-eyed from a late night, hair squiffy, remnants of fried egg from the hang-over breakfast still tickling my chin. Everybody, that’s everybody who walks past, looks in. Proper looks in. Not just a glance. It’s human nature. They look so intensely they could tell from 15 feet if my grey roots needed colouring. They could tell if I’d suddenly and unfortunately developed ear hair and God forbid the morning I drag my half asleep, un-clothed self down-stairs, open the curtains and forget I have no ‘window covering.’ I couldn’t do it to the locals. It wouldn’t be nice. So you see, I can’t, I really can’t, leave my windows exposed.

OK. So there are options.

I could choose Venetian blinds, but honestly? Not ok. If you want to see out clearly you have to set them at right angles to the window and as much as you see out, people can see in. I know you’re with me on that one ..

Perhaps frosted glass? But that would only remove all my simple pleasures, because where I live is very friendly and I enjoy tapping away at my keyboard and watching the world go by. I like to know who’s walking their dog, who’s hopping out with a new date, (wink) who’s passing by that I haven’t spoken to for a while .. because in a rare and lovely place, like the one in which I live, it’s still the norm to take an unscheduled moment out of your day to hop to the front garden and indulge in a bit of doorstep banter; even, on a sunny summer’s afternoon (whenever we were last blessed with one of those??) a spontaneous glass of wine at lunch-time on the sun trap patio to the rear of house.

If I chose frosted glass, I wouldn’t see any of those passers by and would miss the interactions that are part of our community of neighbours.

I could go ‘semi-discreet’ and look at frosted panes with little clear squares in them, but I know what I’m like. I’d spend my whole time bending forward over my desk to squint through the gaps (not a good look) … You see my dilemma? The fantastic neighbourly relations that I enjoy (no less than 4 key holders, a seamstress, free access to pets, mechanics, DIY experts, the drinking girls .. need I go on!) and a love of a past-time that largely belongs to a few pockets of England where communities are still strong but mainly sits in an era long-gone, has left me with no option but to go for ‘net curtains.’ There I said it!! I have nets. Arghhhhhhhhhhhh!

(They are a creamy, plain muslin though and only cover the lower half of the window. Does that make it just a teeny bit better?)

I promise you however, I’m not as bad as a fun Aunt of mine. She was so keen on neighbourly news that for a joke one Christmas as a kid I bought her a pair of mini binoculars. And I do believe she used them!

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Smash and Grab

2009-02-20T06:00:00.004Z

Back in 80’s Germany it was apparently the law that if, as a cyclist, you had an accident with a taxi, the taxi driver would be obliged to pay you a fine/compensation of 200 old German marks (the equivalent then, so I’m told, of around £120.)

For a student, it wouldn’t be inaccurate to admit that this was a suitable sum of money to wade through a good few days of solid partying.

With the above in mind, when one of my friends, living there at the time with his German girlfriend, felt particularly broke .. . they did what any self-respecting student was partial to back then: Took an outing on their cycles to deliberately ram a cab (without causing personal harm or injury of any type, except to wheel-hubs and their fake pride, I should underline.)

I didn’t know him during his ‘crim’ phase but he assures me that because taxi drivers didn’t want the local police involved, the usual practice was to pay out cash directly to the ‘wounded party’ (sad faces were a particular skill) and yo ho ho, offer the students a direct path to the nearest drinking hole.

After a raft of crinkled two-wheelers and out of college celebrations, I do believe the law was adjusted. Oh. I wonder why ..?

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Never Underestimate A Pensioner

2009-02-19T06:00:00.005Z

Relaxing demurely a few days ago with friends and a glass of Chardonnay to hand, in a ‘rugged’ bar in a backwater of North London, and over trips a solid looking bloke with a twinkle in his eye.

“This is Wally,” my friend introduced, as our new drinker planted himself firmly on a nearby stool to gain position.

I say gain position because within a minute and a half I knew him as Wally The Rigger, 65, retired but “worked hard all m’life,” with three women (one at home, two others apparently ‘on the go’ in some form) and just as he was regaling us with a story of some mischief he’d been up to, another local attempted to chip in, to Wally’s instant dismissal.

One nod and a wink in my direction and he confidently assured his pal: “Not now mate, I’m on the pull.”

Laugh? I nearly spat my drink out. What a character. He even allowed a photo on my phone that I sent out to friends to inform them of my new boyfriend!

I did have to walk through the bar alone at one point (I’m not saying it was a lion’s den but I believe it’s fair to say that it’s not a pub designed for women) … and keeping my eyes fixed firmly ahead so as not to attract attention I heard a muttered comment from one man to another as I squeezed between them and a wonderful roaring log fire … “If I could afford IT!” followed by a hearty (and pretty dirty) chuckle.

Do you think they were referring to the beer, darlings? I was only wearing dodgy leggings. Their premium fizz must be incredibly pricey …

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Rugby Gems (Meaty thighs, broad shoulders, gorgeous men (Sorry, I forgot myself for a moment ..)

2009-02-18T06:00:00.003Z

A lovely little moment back when some of our recent retirees from the game were in their rugby playing prime.

A mate of mine was at a match and in eager response to some clever manoeuvre, punched the air with his fist and shouted from his seat at Lawrence Dallaglio: “Go ON my son!”

A delicate tap on his left shoulder and he was obliged to turn to see why the lady next to him was requiring his attention.

“He’s not your son, he’s mine actually!” she informed, with a cheeky smile.

It was indeed Lawrence’s mother. Not only talent in the family, but a top sense of humour too. Go girl!

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Popstars and Cheeky Boys

2009-02-17T06:00:00.001Z

A friend gave this scoop to Gary Bushell many years ago so although I wasn’t witness to the piece, this story did make an appearance in The Sun - but I’m not ashamed to be the second to tell a tale, for those who patronise other newspapers. (Cheap? Desperate? Me?)

He was living in Germany in the late 90’s (the friend, not Gazzer) and out drinking with pals one night when they bumped into a group of young lads in a bar who were unfamiliar with the town. Being a charitable sort, by request he rounded them up and took them to a nearby venue where a karaoke contest was running. The group took part with a gaggle of other wannabees and an attractive female vocalist won the shebang.

As outsiders to the community, the lads finished a respectable 3rd place. Nothing to be ashamed of, except as Westlife they’d just enjoyed No1 Chart success in the UK and in Germany the runner up, one place ahead of them in a 2-bit sing-a-long bar, was an out of tune Elvis Presley sound-a-like.

Well done Mr P. Graceland would be proud of you!

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Taxi for the Oldie ...

2009-02-16T06:00:00.001Z

There’s nothing like an East-Ender for a good one-liner. And Londoners from that part of town also have a perfect way of abbreviating the English language.

A friend told me about a moment last week when a cab arrived at a pub in Roman Road, Bethnal Green, to collect a passenger. The taxi driver popped his head round the door and called out:

“Cab for The Roman?”

A drinker replied: “Don’t think so mate. They left about 2000 years ago.”

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Women Aren't the Only Ones who Get Confused!

2009-02-10T14:34:00.009Z

Top of this Tuesday Mornin’ to ya!

A friend has just informed me of his latest ‘date’ (Friday 6^th) and it really is too amusing not to share. (I’m kindly being given permission by all friends to publish their stories to date; long may it continue!)

Simon (pseudonym, to save his embarrassment!) was invited by one his friends to go on a ‘blind date’ with a mate’s girlfriend’s friend. You keeping up so far? I guess the link was rather tenuous, but anyway, he accepted and arranged to meet her this very afternoon just passed.

On calling her from his train destination, she informed him that she was at Euston station and since he was at Kings Cross only a few minutes walk away on the Marylebone road she asked if he would meet her there. Being a total gent he sauntered over and suggested they lunch at an attractive bistro pub owned by a friend of his, only a short cab ride away.

At this point he decided to pose a perfectly normal question. “Where’s your accent from? It’s really lovely. Are you French, maybe Belgian?” He assures me that during their only phone conversation, she had sounded distinctly European.

“Barnet actually,” came the surly reply, her face dropping to what had instantly morphed into an inexplicable scowl. “Why, where’s your accent from?” the response was vaguely aggressive.

“Well, umm, I’m originally from Ireland but then moved to Coventry,” he ventured, slightly out of sorts by this point.

“Not Yardley then?” she pressed on assertively.

“No, Coventry.” He smiled nervously, wondering where this was leading.

“I’m off” she muttered and with one swift kick of her heel, turned her back on him and strutted back into the bowel of the station concourse.

Standing befuddled, wondering at which point he’d gone wrong and why they hadn’t even succeeded in getting as far as climbing into the cab, Simon received a text from his hot date.

“I don’t like you taking the mickey out of my accent, you moron.”

And with that, his shortest ever date was over, even though the poor man didn’t ‘take the mickey,’ was about to treat her to lunch and had found her European version of a Barnet accent incredibly appealing.

A potential case of: “Who got out the wrong side of bed this morning darling?”

He’s currently drowning his sorrows (actually he’s still laughing in disbelief) in the same pub, but with some other friends who really don’t mind whether he sounds Yardley or Bognor. And bless him, I think he’s ordered bangers and mash for two, just as a tribute to his new dinner party story.

Better luck next time mate!

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Naughty Surprises and Sore Fingers

2009-02-09T14:00:00.003Z

Just as a male eye props happily open if a ‘costume drama’ begins with a beauty in frilly pantaloons, it's equally encouraging for girls when a show starts with an almost naked man and tonight (Thursday 5^th) at our local theatre, we were treated to a lovely pair of white pants hugging a perfectly pleasing actor and .. well let's just say the majority of females present appeared more than discreetly delighted with the opening scene. (The pants really did fit very well. I do believe that gluteus maximus exercises had hopped to the top of the gym-bunny-work-outs in preparation for the role, or maybe he’s just naturally blessed in the buttock department) .. But let’s not lower the tone further ..

So ... to the play. We were seated (and I really don't wish to denigrate a wonderful building that showcases such talent) on what can only be described as a minimal perch fronted by chicken wire, approximately 1 inch from the knuckles of our reluctant knees. Having been locked in an under-stairs cupboard one day during my earliest youth by the cleaner who was 'kindly' baby-sitting me and my two siblings for mother (and no, it hadn't been a mistake .. apparently I was quite simply 'too annoying' and needed to be shut somewhere out of the way) I've had rather a fear of being cooped up ever since. I'm sure you'll understand why, after the experience of struggling with the family hoover and some fearsome spiders in pitch black, unaware that I’d ever be allowed out again to enjoy extra beans on my toast or watch the latest version of Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea (Thursday nights – top viewing.)

I digress.

I was offered a seat downstairs and my friend (who’d garnered marginally more leg-room than myself in the adjoining corner spot) generously instructed me to move, which I duly did after some remonstration. We waved sadly to each other from opposites corners of the 4-sided theatre and then settled down to watch a very amusing and brilliant one-man show at my favourite fringe theatre, The Orange Tree (sit downstairs and it’s perfect!)

Seventy-five minutes of pure joy later (he didn’t spend long in his underwear – it wouldn’t be right would it? No, it was just a fabulously acted play "I Found My Horn" about a middle-aged man finding his love of music again and along with it, his self respect) we shot off to Sainsburys (I know, my life is defiantly racy) did our weekly shop (it wasn’t planned this way) but didn’t waste time with dull chatter in the car – why would any woman do that?! My friend has just been informed (by the man himself) that her latest ‘squeeze’ is rather partial to female tattoos. Only the type that linger in secret places you understand.

Apparently she is the first voluptuously gorgeous woman in many years he has dated who hasn’t been blessed with a ‘surprise,’ but after imparting her news to me, we did question the fascination with such adornments. After all, a surprise is only such when you first see it.

A butterfly on your right buttock may seem cheeky on first viewing, but how irritating is it when 3 years later it has never flown off?

An anchor on your mid-lower back may seem wild and rock-chick .. but what happens when you want it to push off to another port?

The oriental symbols that spells out your ex’s name may initially look exotic, but when he realises who it refers to and wishes he could blot it out with a virulent form of permanent poisonous ink, does love whizz out of the nearest toilet fan-light?

But don’t panic my lovelies. I came up with a solution. We don’t want love fading do we? (Oh, no no no, says the Churchill Dog.)

Nothing like a good wash to get rid of unnecessaries. I suggested that my friend tease her amour with a ‘temporary’ tattoo at some unexpected future moment .. and just as his interest disappears, so will the body art. Perfect! (Are we Goddesses, or what?!)

Anyway, to much more pressing matters. I have a sore finger. Racing upstairs earlier to grab the phone from the bathroom shelf to see if Mark (my gay bestie friend – every girl must have one!) was accompanying me to the theatre (I needed 2 options because of snow issues) I unwittingly chipped a piece out of my china soap dispenser, hadn’t noticed the wreckage, then later hauled what I thought was a piece of stray candle wax from my sink and sliced off the top of my right digit finger.

I need you to know at this point that I am in the greatest ‘finger pain.’ I am typing at a reduced speed of 30 words per minute (I’m craving my Nurofen Meltlets – all lemony and nice) and using only the tip (well, nail) of my digit finger tip to write to you today.

Do you love me even more for this dedication. Do you? Do you? (I’m feeling that love)

By the way … I dropped my friend home and she didn’t once mention the actor’s nice buttocks. Women newly in love really don’t get distracted from the main man, do they?

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Twinkly Things and Dirty Engines

2009-02-06T16:00:00.001Z

Morning Possums! Well I have to say these dark nights (and I don’t mean metaphorically dark) … they do have their advantages don’t they?

If you’re outside the ‘big smoke’ in the ‘Land of the Free’ – you lucky devils – you can enjoy the spit of a real coal or the crackle of a rustic log. Here in Londinium we’re allowed the fake burners but I have to say that it’s not so bad to live without real huge flames from a roaring grate. You just have to turn a little creative. Me? I’m into twinklies and candles, but chaps .. we’re only mirroring your own pleasures in a novel way.

Just as some men are never happier than when they’re wearing their builder’s pouch, a screw driver in hand, looking proper butch, gaining the admiration of their partner/ pet dog/ neighbour - frankly anyone or thing given to sighing with adoration while they manfully change a complicated fuse, switch a light-bulb or mend a toilet roll holder - girls can identify with that level of joy as they potter about tweaking a twinkly and lighting wicks.

And guys, please don’t underestimate the complications of hopping down to Robert Dyos to find a replacement miniature bulb for our teeny delights. There are more varieties of diddly light-bulbs than you could ever find in the fuse section of your local ‘I’m a real man superstore’ … Honest! I’ve wasted many a £2.99 for a pack of the wrong type only to be far too embarrassed to return my dud purchase. I don’t know what they fit but I have a drawer full of pointless replacements and usually just wait till Christmas and buy whole new sets on an annual basis.

Twist them round fake bamboos (I know you won’t believe this but it’s actually quite classy) … wrap them round bed-heads … drape them into the folds of silk that adorn your ciel de lis … you can even hang an outside set (square’ish look to the ensemble) to the whole side of a cupboard! Ok, ok, I haven’t invited all the above into one home but it’s all possible and does make a winter evening cosier.

All you need as a final touch, if you’re not the proud owner of an open grate and a bloke who can do his caveman show and perform ‘man stokes fire,’ preferably not wearing a kitchen pinny, are a few discreetly lit candles. They really are a first rate second best.

That isn’t to say though that if anyone lives near enough to the borders of SW London and is offering strangers toasted marshmallows and hot toddies beside the real thing, that I and a few select friends wouldn’t turn up. We’re not totally daft.

Now boys, go get your hands dirty in that engine and forget you read this fluff!!

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk

Totally Random Act of Kindness (Call me a Saint )

2009-02-05T14:00:00.001Z

I don’t use Facebook often. As I mentioned a few days ago – it’s just my ‘Nosing Parlour’ .. but just recently a friend from NYC (stop, take deep breath, monitor heart palpitations – feel enduring love for the City - one more deep breath, return to normal) …. well, she sent out a missive to her entire network to join the “Random Act of Kindness” Group. I don’t usually join groups but it seemed the decent thing to do. So I duly signed up, which left me wondering what ‘random act’ I’d carry out. Because you can’t plan these things. I just rejoiced in the fact that I knew, I just knew I would be a be a good girl and do something wonderful for a passing stranger.

Then two days later I did it. Yes, it didn’t take long. Good old meeee!

I love to drive. I relish the freedom of my car. Always have. (Don’t get mad at me now – I don’t use a gas guzzler!) When I first passed my test at the slightly tardy age of 21 I often used to take to my car on hour long jaunts in no particular direction, destination home. Back then I listened to Frankie (Sinatra, the God of croon) .. to the disgust of my friends who thought I’d lost my ‘cool’ button. I’m not sure I ever had one!

I still enjoy the simple pleasure of clutch/gear/accelerate, but only drive for a purpose these days. To climb into my motor now and shut out the world for just a few moments, to wallow in my beloved LBC and poodle along quietly … Ahh, the bliss.

So there I was, driving along a busy local high street in rush hour, when that passing stranger (the one who heard about me on Facebook) tried to exit a side road towards me. I stopped with an air of calm and grace similar to Florence swabbing wounds and earning the gratitude of a thousand men. Passive and generous in extremis, I allowed him access to the fore of my humble wheels in heaving traffic. With a swift nod of thanks he shot ahead and I knew I’d delivered my random nicety.

For those of you who are now looking puzzled but have yet to experience the London School of Assertive Driving, please believe me that allowing a single motor into your line of traffic is an act of extreme random kindness.

Are you proud of me??!! I can almost feel your emotion. Thank you.

Speak soon .. :-)

www.chatterboxevents.co.uk