You are not logged in. Login or Signup
Profile for chickenlady:
Profile Info:

none

Recent front page messages:


none

Best answers to questions:

» The Police II

Loads of police stories
Rather prescient that a question on the police should come up this week....My dad retired from the police force about 14 years ago and sadly passed away last week. It's rather nice to be able to put a lot of his funny stories down.
This one I told before in 2007.

My Dad is was a Scot but lived down South and served in the local force.

One morning my Dad had gone into work and was called down to the cells where the custody officer was a fellow Scot.

Apparently a drunk had been brought in overnight and now the custody office decided he was going to teach the drunk a lesson....

My Dad and the CO go to the door of the drunk cell which is open and a very forlorn young man sits on the edge of the 'bed' (they didn't have a bed, it was a step with a mattress on it so if the drunk fell out of bed he wouldn't hurt himself - see, British policemen *are* considerate! Mind you, they would probably thump him later...). So there he sits, head in hands muttering about never drinking again - yep, we've all been there.

He looks up at the two officers, "Where am I?" he asks,
"A long way from home pal" says the CO in a broad Scots accent.
"Eh?" replies confused drunk,
"You're in Glasgow Central"

The drunk denies this and insists that it's impossible for him to have been out drinking in Kent last night but this morning to be nearly 500 miles way in Glasgow, Scotland. He insists that the policeman is having a laugh....

The CO turns to my Dad, "Tell him"
"Glasgow Central pal. How'd you get up here?" answers my Scots father.

The drunk begins to look horrified.
"You're 'avin' a laugh!" he still refuses to believe....

So now the police begin to get really evil....
"Hang on a moment pal."
My Dad disappears into the corridor and finds another uniformed officer...who just happens to be a fellow Scot....."Tell this joker where he is"

The large policeman puts his head around the door, looks slightly quizzically at the drunk and then says, "D'ye no ken y'rin Glasgow Central?"

At this point the drunk began to shake his head and tears appeared in his eyes, "My wife is going to kill me!"

The policemen offered no sympathy with his plight, they were hard even, refusing to agree to his pleas for some sort of help to buy a train ticket, or even allow him a phone call home. Instead they kicked him out of the police station onto the mean streets of Whitstable, Kent.
(Mon 9th May 2011, 12:41, More)

» Karma

Karma?
This isn’t a particularly easy post for me to make, but because of this week’s question I thought I’d share…

Usually this story is one I only tell people who have known me a fair length of time because, believe it or not, I’m actually a very
private person. However, I was once asked to do some work for the Lavender Trust – at the time I was too busy bringing up my sons so instead here’s my bit in the interests of offering hope…

Good grief - that sounds terribly worthy – I'm not, but the story is.


*****************

Many years ago during the summer of my 21st birthday I had it all – I was at uni studying history with plans to become a primary school teacher, I had my own car, good friends, and a handsome boyfriend who was two years later to become my first husband and as I was also to discover, gay….but that’s another story…


One day I was laying in the bath feeling smug about my perfect life when I noticed a small lump sitting on the top of my right breast, in fact more on the flat part of my upper chest. I thought it strange as I’d never noticed it before and put it down to hormonal fluctuations – surely it would disappear when I’d had my period. So I left it for a couple of weeks waiting for it to go.

It didn’t.

Full of shame and embarrassment I booked an appointment with the nurse at my doctors’ surgery – why the shame and embarrassment?

Need I remind you I was a good catholic girl?
Despite having long since lost my virginity I had not had many boyfriends, I was not accustomed to whipping out my boobs at any drunken opportunity – to my mind (despite obvious evidence to the contrary) I was fat and therefore unattractive – in other words I was pretty much an ordinary young woman.

So with head hung down to hide my burning cheeks I took off my t-shirt and bra to show the nurse the lump I’d found on my breast. She took one look, called me silly for coming to see her and not the doctor and called in my GP. This man had known me all my life – seen me go through measles, chickenpox, german measles, mumps – in fact, you name it, I’d had it. My shame deepened – he was going to see my breasts!

He examined me and told me, "Oh, that’s nothing, just a fibroid adenoma."
A what?
"Very common. Nothing to worry about."

Weeks passed and finally in the late autumn I saw the surgeon. "This lump – yes, probably a fibroid adenoma, but let’s take it out just to be on the safe side"

Fast forward to March – two months before my 22nd birthday.

I go in for day surgery to have this lump taken out – I’m in the hospital at around 8am and have left by 3pm feeling fine but a little sore. Told to come back in a week to have the stitches taken out.


All the other appointments I had attended alone – I’m a very independent person, always have been. This time however my mum came along – I made her sit in the waiting room, as I wouldn’t have her see my breasts!

In the examining room I sat with a nurse, she was probably in her early thirties and was there to help the surgeon remove the stitches and act as female chaperone. The surgeon came in and before he began to attend to the wound he very gently told me that unfortunately the lump hadn’t been a benign fibroid adenoma but instead it was a malignant tumour.

Breast cancer.


When I got up from the emotional number 8 bus which had just run me over my first question, the obvious question, “Am I going to die?” And to his credit he didn’t lie to me or fob me off – he was completely honest, “I don’t know. Come back this afternoon, speak to a colleague of mine, an oncologist, and he will be able to tell you more.”

He then took out the stitches, squeezed my hand and wished me good luck. Then he went to get my mother. I was left with the nurse who simply kept repeating, “Oh please don’t cry! Don’t cry, please don’t cry!”

I drove myself and my mum home – she’d already phoned my dad who happened to be having a day off. I don’t honestly remember much about those few hours between being told and then going back to the hospital in the afternoon. Except that I truly believed I would die within the year. I went for a shower and stood under the water sobbing with regret that I would never be married, never have children, never have a life. Then I began to pull myself together – the strangest things get you through times like these – I kept on thinking of all the young servicemen who had been killed in wars – they would have been a similar age to me and they were dead now. If they could get through it, so could I.

The next six months passed in a daze – I had been reassured that I was not terminal, everything had been caught at an early stage. However because of my age they needed to be sure that that I didn’t have a reoccurrence. I had chest x-rays, a bone scan, ultrasounds of my liver and then the treatment.

First off was six weeks of radiotherapy – just like having an extended x-ray – three times a week for about 20 minutes at a time. During those six weeks I wasn’t allowed to wear deodorant or even talc because they would interfere with the treatment. The skin on my breast and under my arm became reddened then sores opened – I had to wear a t-shirt under a bra like some sort of bizarre female superman.

Around the same time I also began a regime of chemotherapy – I was lucky my hair didn’t fall out, but I had it all cut off to a short crop just in case. After the radiotherapy finished I spend a week in hospital alone in a lead-lined room with five radioactive wires skewering my breast and no one was allowed to visit me for more than fifteen minutes a day to protect them from the radioactivity.

Throughout the entire six months no one would have known I was ill – I looked just the same, yes I’d cut my hair and I was a little tired, but I didn’t lose any weight or look ill. I saw other patients – thankfully mostly old – come and go, many of them dying, including a young woman only a few years older than myself who had two young children.



Karma? I did wonder for a long time what I’d done in a previous life to deserve this.

But…..



Fast forward six years – I’m divorced from the handsome gay man and have remarried. One month after the wedding we decide to start to try for a family – no hanging about as I had been warned that I may find it difficult or even impossible to conceive because of all the treatment.


And that’s where the Karma comes in….

First attempt.

Twins.

Non identical twins – that’s two eggs – in other words, don’t sit to close to men on buses as you are über-fertile.

Healthy pregnancy, boys delivered full term and large – both around seven pounds.


That was ten years ago. I continue to go for regular mammograms but my chances now of developing cancer are the same as anyone else.



If that’s Karma, I can deal with it.
(Fri 22nd Feb 2008, 11:34, More)

» My sex misconceptions

The Chickenlady Guide to Giving The Talk
Ever since my sons (now 10) have been very small I've been very open and told them the bits that they were ready for regarding sex… So here is my guide to Giving The Talk


Talk One - The basics of Biology

This is a pearoast from Animal Cruelty -

When they were about 6 I got hold of some fertile eggs because one of my hens (Ethel) was broody. She duly sat on them and produced four cockerels and only two hens. The chicks were lovely but within a few weeks the young cocks had become just that and were harassing all of the hens…several times a day to the point that the favoured hens had no feathers on the tops of their heads and many of them had now got bloody scabs from the over enthusiastic males holding them with their beaks.

When your young children have seen hens being given a good seeing to on a regular basis sex education is pretty easy, or so I’d thought. The following conversation is etched on my memory…

Son #1 “Mummy, what is Hector [Hector was the biggest cockerel and therefore it was his house...] doing to all the hens?”

Me “He wants to give them chicks”

The kids were already well aware that hens lay eggs regardless of whether there’s a cockerel about or not (some adults are unaware of this, and more than once I’ve heard an egg referred to as a ‘Chicken abortion’ erm….no it’s unfertilised…and will never ever become a chick, you idiot).

Son #1“But how?”

Me“Ah…well….you know how you have a winkle?”

He nods, interested now (typical male…any mention of genitalia and they’re all ears…as it were…)

Me“Well…Hector has one too”

Son #1“Where?”

Me“Under his feathers. Anyway, he jumps on the hen’s back and he puts his winkle into the hen”

Son #1“Where?”

Me“Erm…where the eggs come out”

Son #1“UP HER BUM!!??”

Me“Yes…but it’s called a Vent in chickens”
(Can you tell I used to be a primary school teacher?)

*Boy thinks*

Son #1“Mummy….”

Me“Yes darling?”

Son #1 “Is that how people get babies?”

Me“Pretty much, yes, but they always ask first and they always should like each other a lot”

Son #1“So…Daddy…and you…..”

Me“Yes”

Boy looks slightly shocked…

Me“It’s alright you know, when you get older you’ll understand that it’s okay and nice too.”

Boy begins to cry…

Son #1“But Mummy….I’ll never be able to do that!”

At that point I’m afraid I had to stifle my giggles, gave him a hug, told him it would be okay, he *would* be able to do it and would want to do it, then I sent him outside to play.

Ten minutes later I went out to see what the kids were up to….and I see my son chasing the cockerel around the garden shouting at him, “You git! You didn’t ask her if she wanted chicks! Leave her alone!”
(Fri 26th Sep 2008, 11:27, More)

» Housemates from hell

Padlocked door, dungeons (!) and family members.....
When I was at Uni one of my closest friends shared a house with a girl who was slightly odd….
Jenny had the biggest bedroom in the house due to the fact her parents (her father was a Vicar) had bought the house just for the time she was at Uni – an investment….
Jenny had no friends, was repeatedly unpleasant to everyone (female) she met but had a constant stream of men running through her bedroom, as it were…

When they all moved in Jenny’s first ‘improvement’ to her room was to put a bolt and padlock on the door, for the first month or so she had a carpenter coming and going into her room who was supposedly making her a built in wardrobe.

Around the third or fourth week of term Jenny started skipping lectures – she was doing Geography and wanted to become a Primary School teacher – my friend Shellie decided to check up on Jenny to see if she was okay….
Shellie knocked on Jenny’s door – no reply.
A note was pushed under the door asking if she was okay and could she let someone know where she was….
After two or three days of no sign of Jenny, Shellie and the others were really concerned and telephoned Jenny’s parents – they were angry to have been contacted, and said Jenny had phoned them only that day….

That night Jenny came home with her latest boyfriend – again no one saw her but they heard her and her boyfriend….
At around 3am Jenny and the lad finally decided to go to sleep, having kept everyone awake with their noisy fun which would have shamed any pornstar (so I’m told…).

Jenny still didn’t return to lectures, but she was still very noisily present in the house – but only at night after around midnight and added to the moans and groans were ‘other’ noises….

So Shellie decided one night to stay up and confront Jenny about all the noise…..

Jenny fell in the door late with a man….Shellie had words with her and Jenny told her to get a life….

This went on until the end of term when Jenny finally got kicked off the course – she decided to take a few things and return to her parents.

After she left Shellie and the other housemates went to look in her room – she’d left it padlocked so they broke it and got in….

Jenny had been running a little business on the side – the men she brought back were paying customers and they weren’t just paying for sex but also a bit of discipline too….
Jenny had really got into the idea of being a teacher – apparently she used to dress up in stockings and lacy undies, put on a cap and gown, glasses, and cane the men….
There were also bolts and chains attached to the walls, in fact the room resembled a Victorian classroom crossed with a dungeon…..

Unfortunately when Jenny left she hadn’t told some of her ‘regulars’ that she was off so they started coming round to see where she was – and that was the real killer – Shellie opened the door to her uncle…
he didn’t realise that Shellie lived with Jenny…..
Family reunions are a little strained now…
(Thu 5th Apr 2007, 18:28, More)

» Guilty Laughs

In which Chickenlady confronts feminism, cultural differences and naughty boys
These days it seems rare for me to post on Question of the Week and in fact I thought this week would be another no show from me but then yesterday I was down in Ramsgate on the beach with the Chicken Nuggets (my sons - 12 year old twins) and this gave me something to write about....

Warning - CONTAINS MANY WORDS -

So, yesterday it was warm but overcast - a grey sky which matches the grey pallor of most of Ramsgate's chav population. We had walked down the high street past a group of young women pipe-cleaner thin, covered in 'Chinese' character tattoos, Elizabeth Duke bling and the very best that Sports Direct and Primarni can provide. Each had the obligatory snotty nosed, dead eyed baby or toddler Calpol-ed to keep 'em quiet until the next refill of Maccy D's.
What a stuck up cow I've become
Anyway, I'm walking down the street towards the beach with my two sons - one of whom is muttering, 'Chav, Fat Chav, Old Chav, Skinny Chav, Dog Chav, Baby Chav' as we pass the Carbrini clan, the other boy is silent but his eyes say just one word, 'BOOBS!' As we walk on so we hear the Chav mating call sent out across the street to a young man, "You wanna come 'ere and say that? You facking caaant!"
All of this against a backdrop of Pawnbrokers, Poundland, Newsagents, formica tabled cafes and a lingering smell from the fishmongers. A fishmongers! You can't say Ramsgate isn't on the up!

We reach the beautiful sandy beach - Ramsgate has a beautiful sandy beach generally overlooked by visitors who are put off by the town's current dilapidated state and prefer to go a few miles down the coast to Broadstairs which has kept its Victorian charm and remains the jewel in Thanet Borough Council's crown of seaside towns untouched as it is by poor furrin types and beloved by Cath Kidsonesque DFLs.
The strand is almost empty; a group of slender, hairy and tanned Euroteens on an exchange holiday (they come in their millions every summer), an all female Afro-Caribbean family with very young children (probably DFLs revisiting their childhood haunts), a couple of Mediterranean looking families - dad wearing a pork-pie hat and looking like Angel from Dexter while playing in the sea with his small son (probably also DFLs), two Orthodox Jewish families and the only pasty, white British people on the beach - us. An unusual mix but being the middle class white liberal that I am, I took pride in the fact that we were all there for the same reason - to enjoy the sea, sand and.... overcast skies. Family time.

The Nuggets ran off down to the sea and gave me time to observe our neighbours - the Orthodox Jews. I had mixed feelings about seeing their young son run around in swimming shorts while their three daughters were all fully dressed in black tights, grey pinafore dresses, and long sleeved black tops. Likewise the father was just changing from t-shirt and shorts in which he'd been swimming, back to his traditional black suit and shawl, yet his wife and mother remained dressed like the girls and also wore dark turbans to cover their hair. His wife in particular struck a lonely figure - she was wandering along the shoreline looking like a L S Lowry stick figure against a wide band of grey-blue sea. The children all behaved as children do, however, laughing, whooping and splashing in the water and the girls edging ever closer to the Nuggets.
I stopped worrying about cultural differences and the Position of Women in Orthodox Jewish Society vs. the Position of Women in English Chav Society and instead watched Nugget #2 drawing or writing something in the sand. I quietly applauded myself for producing two 'nice' boys, well-rounded personalities, kind and gentle and here was one being creative on the beach - perhaps he was recreating something he had seen on Art Attack - that used to be his favourite television programme when he was younger.
Oh Chickenlady, haven't you remembered that pride always goes before a fall?
Yes, I thought, everything was right with the world and here on this beach only a few miles from France we had a microcosm of international society and culture and we were all getting along nicely.

Until the Orthodox Jewish father wandered over to his daughters who were shyly smiling at the Nuggets and looking at the artistic creation Nugget #2 had made in the sand. The girls looked questioningly at their father as his tense face glanced down at the image. His heavy brows knitted together and the gathering clouds darkened - I'm guessing it's the same face Moses made when he saw the Israelites worshipping the Golden Calf. The girls in their grey and black outfits were rapidly removed and the family began to pack up to leave the beach but not before casting a few disgusted glances towards both me and the Nuggets.

Did they somehow sense my disapproval of covering up their daughters - they kept their black tights on even when they paddled in the surf - surely every child should be allowed to know the feeling of sand between the toes? Did they sense my unhappiness at the freedoms afforded to the father and son but not the mother and daughters? Did they guess at my internal battle - torn between the middle class liberal notion of Multiculturalism and heartfelt sadness of the failure of feminism?

Or did they notice the guilty laughter of my sons?

Guilty laughter caused by drawing in the sand a fifteen foot spurting cock with hairy seaweed balls.
(Wed 28th Jul 2010, 13:02, More)
[read all their answers]