» Faking it

Not a brown labrador in sight......
I must have been 10ish (the time Sean Connery likes to go to Wimbledon). I detested school with a vengeance. Hard to believe now, but I was The School Swot, always coming top in my year group, if not the school for French, English & science, winning prizes left right & Chelsea in the process.

Not only was I an uber-swot, I came from The Posh Estate. Meaning it was the only private estate in teh pit village (it was a Leech house). The rest consisted of council estates and pit houses. Nothing wrong with that; however, my peers' other prerequisite was the total lack of the ability to breathe nasally.

Therefore, Young Tourettes was ostracised at best, ruthlessly bullied at worst. The only relevance of which was my constant insatiable search for excuses to stay off school. Tonsillitis was good; glandular fever was even better (that got me out of P.E. for 6 months to boot!). Genuine childhood ailments, followed by a long spell of good health. Meh!

Then I played a blinder. Literally.....

From whence the inspiration came, I have no idea. I was forever daydreaming, allowing my eyes to drift off out of focus; leaving the Real World far behind and choosing to spend the majority of time in my own Special World. I was doing this one morning as I descended the stairs. Half way down, a half-baked plan came to me. Leave the eyes out of focus and pretend to be blind!

Fuck me all ways, my folks fell for it. I scored 4 or 5 months off school! (Wouldn’t happen nowadays, oh no, I’d be packed off with Extra Visual Support. But this was the 70’s.) My mother helped me to dress, cut my food up (chips at 3 o’clock, Spam at 8 o’clock, fried egg at 12. “Where’s the Ketchup, Mam?”
“Eeh, sorry pet, it’s at 6 o’clock”).


I was duly taken to *see* the GP, who referred me to an eye specialist in Newcastle. Of course, he couldn’t find anything amiss and suggested I visit an optician. Throughout the exam, I kept up my Oscar-winning performance. However, when the optician started putting different lenses in the frames, a potential problem hit me. If I came away with fuck-off jam jar specs that really would cattle my eyes. So in my 10-year-old wisdom, I decided to say the “weaker” lenses helped. 15 minutes later, I thought I’d been rumbled. The optician told my mother all the lenses he’d inserted had been clear glass! Stinky Poo! How was I going to wriggle out of this? He turned to my mother in all seriousness and said, “Your daughter has nothing physical wrong with her sight. Her blindness is psychosomatic. Can you think of any possible triggers or causes?”
She thought for a moment then proclaimed, “Yes! She read that Shiela Hocken book, “Emma and I” – she was really moved by the story and empathised hugely with the blind lady!”
“That’d do it”, replied the nice optician.

And lo, I had another few weeks off school, while my eyesight *gradually returned*…….

Little fuck-sock that I was.
(Sat 12th Jul 2008, 12:55, More)

» Family codes and rituals

Some family rituals are better cunted in the fuck
Not a funny one.

Throughout my childhood, the only male member of my father's side of the family who didn't "have a go at me" was my father. From the age of 18 months, Uncle Thomas was caught having a fiddle inside my nappy. I remember at around four years old asking, "Mammy, why does Uncle George do nasty kisses?"
"What do you mean pet?"
"I don't like his kisses, they're all wet and he puts his tongue inside my mouth."

And so it went on. Never any nakedness or penetration, just inappropriate fondling. Constantly being told how gorgeous I was by my grandad, as he slipped £5 inside my skirt.
"Didn't you get a birthday card from uncletony this year?" my mother asked.
"Er, no. Maybe it got lost in the post?" I suggested. I had received his card - a picture of a woman wearing a wet vest, complete with sticky-out raspberries. It read, "To Sexpot, from Stinky". I was 11 or 12, and far too embarassed to put this one on display with the other cards. He was by far the worst. Every Christmas he'd buy me extortionately expensive gifts. Buying my silence. Etc.

So I grew up believing that was my purpose in life. There were frequently other adults around, none of whom seemed to react or notice anything amiss. "It must be ok then", thought my innocent little mind. "I don't like it, but none of the grown-ups ever say anything."

At 8 years old I developed alopecia. My GP diagnosed me with depression. However, my mother was discouraged from seeking any treatment for me as "it would remain on my medical and school records permanently". To say she still feels guilty about that is an understatement.

I took an overdose at 10 years old (24 paracetamol washed down with 2 litres of cider) to no avail. From 14, I began drinking really heavily, getting shitfaced to the point of oblivion. When I lost my virginity to rape 2 weeks after my 16th birthday, it wasn't any big deal - it was par for the course.

I left home at 18 to begin my nurse training. Then began my promiscuity in earnest. So absent was my self esteem, and so desperate I was for affection, I'd hop in the sack with any bloke. It was worth enduring the filth of sex to get a cuddle afterwards.


Then I found DG. Or he found me. We didn't sleep together for 4 weeks. We shared a bed, just cuddling all night. He respected me. He didn't just want sex. He wanted to know me, was interested in who I was. The more he knew, he still stuck around; accepting and respecting me regardless.

Here we are, almost 6 years later. He knows every nook and cranny of my darkness, knows all the vile things I've done over the years. And he's still here; accepting, respecting and loving me regardless. He makes me feel it's ok to be me. I'm not a bad person; I'm not dirty, contaminated goods. I'm ok.

On the 8th April next year, we're getting married at Gretna Green. Then we're in Edinburgh for the weekend, attending teh b3ta bash with lovely people. I'm more than a tad chuffed about that.
(Sun 23rd Nov 2008, 19:12, More)

» Impulse buys

Acting on Impulse
Tenuous, as no money exchanged hands, but this definitely involves Impulse.

20+ years ago, during my nurse training I did a stint on the Emergency Admissions ward (watered down A&E). A highly embarassed young lass came in with a "delicate problem". Y'see, she'd been indulging in a drop of ladies' cocoa with a can of Impulse body spray. The lid had *come* adrift in her young, nubile clopper.

She was in floods of tears, her imagination running riot as to what hideously invasive procedure might be entailed.
How did we remove the lid? Common sense, which had the lassie squirming even more with humiliation. At the suggestion of the doctor on duty, I went upstairs to the regular wards to procure a can of Impulse from the deceased's belongings.

Then the doctor explained the "procedure" to this poor girl. He removed the lid from the "new" can, slathered it liberally with KY jelly before plunging it into her clunge and "docking" with the missing lid. You could say he'd found a purchase.

"Why didn't I think of that?" she wailed.

"Next time, leave the lid off and use it the other way round", I suggested helpfully as she scuttled out.
(Tue 26th May 2009, 15:28, More)

» Thrown away: The stuff you loved and lost.

Way back when Hitler was a cadet....
Kids received presents only at Christmas time and on birthdays, not every other week like they do nowadays. Back in our day, any presents were a real treat and greatly valued.

Growing up, my folks had very little dosh; certainly none to be spared on such frivolities as store-bought toys. All of my playmates were lovingly home-made. Jemima was crafted from a pillowcase and her blue & white stripey legs were from an old nightie. She had thick brown woolly hair tied in bunches, her blue eyes and orange crescent shaped mouth patiently sewn in place. She was originally intented as a replica of the Jemima doll from Play School ("Which window shall we look through today?") only my mother excelled herself and my Jemima was far superior. She was the nearest I had to a sister and accompanied me everywhere. We fought like cat and dog; all my childhood frustrations were vented on Jemima as I pummelled her head, yet she set a sterling example of smiling through the pain.

As I progressed through the 10-year-old horse-mad girlie phase, my ultimate dream of having my own pony was sated with the inception of Bobbins. He was a 5' grey legless donkey, whose body was stuffed with old blankets. He had a lovely soft cuddly head, with the most empathic eyes. My mother even fashioned a bridle and saddle from faux leather, left over from recovering a dining chair. Oh, the adventures we had! Sometimes Jemima would ride behind me, her skinny pink arms tied around my waist. Bobbins was my confidante throughout adolescence. I cried rivers of tears into his cuddly neck, whispering secrets of first crush heartbreak.

My mothers piéce de resistance was Emu. Woolworths stocked the blue fluffy ones, but all the kids in our lane were jealous of mine. His legs were crafted from an old pair of cream evening gloves, leaving three stuffed fingers on each for his feet. He even had knee joints made with two fingers stuffed and sewn together, fixed horizontally in the middle of each leg. The left over sleeve of one glove made his neck, with a length of blue fuzzy fabric down the back to match his body. His head was bulked up with a rolled up pair of tights. His body was lined with black tassles (together with his mad plastic eyes, these were the only puchased appendages).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Fast forward 16 years.........

I returned to Blighty from my Greek life, pregnant with Sweary Jr, my heart in tatters, my life broken. PTSD left my eyes hollow - my soul had been gouged out with a plastic spoon. My father was brow beating me to submit that abortion was my only realistic option. But that's another can of worms... When I couldn't go through with it (this baby was very much wanted and planned) on my return from hospital, having "failed" to do "the sensible thing", I had to ask his permission to have my own child - because at the time i was again living under his roof.

My mother, bless her millions, had accompanied me to my appointment for the scan - I was too far pregnant for a standard abortion, I would have had to have labour induced and give birth. She broke down when I did, and promised to support me whatever decision I made. Hey, did I have a choice? "Of course you do!" assured the kind nurse, "it's not too late to change your mind, you don't have to go through with this!"
To which I sobbed, "My mind was never set on this - it's the last thing I want."

So my dear mother did her royal best to ease the situation. She took me to Mothercare and bought baby bootees and maternity clothes. But life as a single parent? That had never been in my game plan. But I knew, somehow, we'd manage.

In part of her encouragement, she asked if I wanted to keep Emu et al for my baby to enjoy. One of my few regrets in this life was the callous decision I made to bin the lot. I no longer had time for soppy sentiment after all I'd endured. This was not the life I'd planned but I'd have to toughen up and be practical. I'd lost so much of my heart and soul, what value could any material possesions have?

So my priceless childhood companions, all made with so much love, were bagged and put out for the bin men. My mother sobbed throughout the whole macabre process. It sounds wet, but a little piece of her heart broke that day. At my own instigation, she wasn't just throwing away my cherished chums, but my former care-free, innocent, happy little self.

(Apologies for soppiness - this place ain't half a cathartic vent sometimes. And apologies for length - it all just came spurting out ;o) Promise to resume to usual swearage ASAP.)
(Tue 19th Aug 2008, 17:30, More)

» Karma

Salad Cream
Mrs Legless has inspired me to share this 'tale'. All my love goes to my mate Legless and his lovely warm good Greek woman :o)

During the early to mid 90's I did my Shirley Valentine bit and went to live on a Greek island. Fell for the people / lifestyle / philosophy / kultcha / kooysine / language / customs / nuances / the whole kit & kaboodle. My heart truly belonged there, and more importantly, so did my soul. I decided to settle there permanently. Found the most charming apartment by the sea (with it's very own amusing tales - not relevant to this week's Q). One aspect of living there never ceased to amaze me, and not one morning went by when I didn't marvel at the view from my sweary bedroom window. I could open the sun shutters, lie back down on my scratcher, and look out over the Agean Sea to Turkey beyond. Turkey was so close that on a a clear day I could even see the traffic moving along its coast.

So as not to bibble on too much, life was a bow(e)l of cherries! I shared the apartment with my bestest and only English friend (who is now Vice Consul for the island - I remember asking how the hell she'd got that job, to which her reply was, "I applied for the fucker, didn't I?!")

Puppies ensued - again another story in itself - ah, my beloved Gorby....
*sniff*
*bigger sniff*
*fuckin this sleeve just doesn't have enough surface area for the absorbancy required*

During the next chapter, I met my Dream Man, to match the dream life. (Apart from living hand-to-mouth & struggling to buy new underwear.) Stelios was from the mainland, not at all in-bred, oh no, he was bringing new blood to the island.

We fell in love and all that shit & shebang. Come winter time, it was easy enough for me to find / continue work but not so for him. So we moved to his home city on t'mainland, Thessaloniki. By then, he'd proposed and I was up the duff.

Twas a rocky-and-a-half pregnancy, touch and go from one hour to the next if I might have a miscarriage. Had to take hormone tablets to keep my blit -sorry, I mean cervix - closed. Cue hormones, stress, arranging a wedding. decorating & furnishing new apartment.

Then, for no apparent reason, one night I was torn from our bed by the hair, thrown semi-naked into the street and had 27 colours of shit kicked out of me. Where the fuck did that come from? What in spunky bell-end's name had I done to provoke that? Having my head mashed into a brick wall etc.

The embryo/foetus/baby Tourettes had by then been incubating in the proverbial oven for 3 months. Methinks, "If daddy-darling can do this to me in our current state, it is tantamount to beating the baby/child."
Like the Harp lager advertisement, I was off. Time for a sharp exit. Fucked off in quicksticks, belly & I did.

And here follows The Happy Ending....
I'm not sure about karma, but I am a true believer in Fate. I believe everything in a person's life happens for a reason. What doesn't kill you makes you stronger and all that.

If Stelios hadn't pulverised me when he did (2 weeks before our wedding) I wouldn't have left him. Therefore I would never have returned to Blighty. And regained a smidgeon of sanity. And met Davros' Granddad who restored my faith in human nature. Taught me to love and how to be loved, right through to the bone, warts 'n' all. This man really is my true love, my soul-mate in this life. I have never loved anyone, apart from my son (which is a love in a category of its own) so much as I do DG. I love him from the nucleus of every cell in my body. He warms the darkest cockle recesses of my wizened heart like Crabbie's Green Ginger wine on the frostiest of winter's days. I melt when he snuggles up for a snog... just before I close me eyes I see the creases outside his and the loving twinkle within. Makes me wilt fizzingly within his embrase...*

Like so many others, I am the product of a highly disfunctional / fucked up childhood. I remember watching the advertisement for Heinz salad cream in my late teens / early 20's. The one with the Nice Non-dysfunctional family co-operating nicely over a barbeque. Twas always my dream to be part of such a family...

And now I am living that salad cream dream - with my bestest-beloved Davros, the most fab son and the dog with the mostest specialistist needs...

Have just spent the smashingest Sunday and birthday with my very own salad cream family :o)

*should I apologise for being so smushy? Promise to soon resume to my 3.5 tattoo sweary posts?......?

Should I soapy-tit-wank fuckstick!!!
(Mon 25th Feb 2008, 0:41, More)