Sexy Pink Pyjamas and a Happy Dance

Hellooooo, world, I’m here! *Waits for the cheers to subside and then does a Happy Dance* Well, it’s more of a slow shuffle, but you get the idea.

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How are you, peeps? What’s been happening in the Wonderful World of Blogging? I’ve missed you! But I so needed to take a break and then I kind of got out of the habit. I will do better. I will do better. I will.

Let me bring you up to date: I’m loads better and have a new job. Now, don’t get too excited; I’ve not joined a team about to find a cure for cancer. I’m not running for parliament, and I’m still not Jason Statham’s salaried sex-slave. (Yet. But I remain optimistic; I just need to work off all those Christmas mince pies and Quality Street chocolates that cling stubbornly to my lardy arse and I’ll be ready for a wild, animalistic, hotel-room trashing, chandelier swinging romp a grown-up, deep and meaningful relationship.)

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Anyway, my new job… I’m now a Housekeeper at a small holiday lettings company. It’s about 12-16 hours a week and I can pretty much keep my own hours as long as I’m there for Friday changeovers. I just hope I can keep it up during the summer when I’ve got twenty cleaners and thirty cottages to manage on one day! At the moment I’m just happy to be well enough to work. This time last year I could barely get off the sofa and had to crawl upstairs for a pee.

C0mpletely random, but here’s our dog:

He’s not new, in fact in doggy years  the silly sod is now entering middle-age, but he still thinks he’s a puppy. Poor thing, he’s always had Special Needs. He’s called Deefor, as in A for Apple, B for Ball, D for Dog, but we just tend to call him The Dog With No Brain. Bless!

And then, there’s the new hat I bought myself, ready for the predicted mini Ice-Age. It’s January and it’s been the mildest winter on record, but hey! There’s still time for the snow.  I proudly present Youngest Son modelling Tiny’s New Furry Hat, comeplete with built-in ear-flaps and nipple-warmers:

That's my boy!

Ummm, what else? Oh, I know! I had some pretty cool pyjamas for Christmas. I’m tempted to post a photo, but I’m not sure I should. I mean, they are pretty sex-kittenish. I wouldn’t want any of you getting over-excited and drooling over your keyboard…

Hey, I know – we’ll compromise – I’ll post the picture if you go and grab a paper bag. That way, should you be so sexually aroused that you start hyperventiliating, you’ll have a handy bag to breathe into. And it also doubles quite nicely as a sick-bag.

Okay, here I come, but remember I did try to warn you…

Take me, Jason. I'm yours!

How cool? And they’re not just fleecy, they’re soft and  furry! Furry, I tell you! Like a silky pink cat. I put these on in the evening and can’t resist giving myself a little stroke, and out of my mouth pops a perfect purrrrrr.

And they’re even printed with a little message:

Purrrrr!

Are they not THE perfect present for me? Pink, furry jammies, Eeyore slippers and a snooze on the sofa. Could my life be more complete?

Actually, there is one thing missing: a man. And not just any man – oh, you so know where this is going… The Christmas Fairies gave me a four-film JS DVD set. Actually, I probably shouldn’t call my two 6 foot sons fairies, should I? Anyway, that’s 7 hours of back-to-back, action-packed Jason. Just think if it were front-to-front  – oh, be still, my twitching knickers…

My favourite one in the box has to be Chaos, where he plays a maverick detective trying to solve a bank robbery where nothing was actually stolen. He’s a gorgeous, walking sex-machine at the best of times, but in this he wears a bullet-proof vest and he’s just Phwoarrr!

Ooh, and here’s another mean ‘n’ moody one:

And the last one:

Who’d have thought a woolly hat could be so sexy?

Now, normally I’m careful about the images I use, making sure they’re copyright free, and linking back to the owner, but this time, I’ve just posted. My next update could well be from sent from prison, but I’d be proud to say I went down for Jason.  😉

A Little Something for the Weekend…

Let’s start with a small treat for the guys:

Angelina Jolie - Image via Wikipedia

 And now, a HUGE something for the girls:

Phwoooooooaaaaaaaaarrrrr!

Last week I watched The Mechanic – eyes as wide as dinner plates, mouth hanging open and drool dripping off my chin.

Ladies, you have to see this film; within the first five minutes, the smokin’ hot JS had stripped down from silky wet wetsuit to black Calvin Klein’s.
Oh, be still my twitching knickers!

Despite the title of the movie, Jason doesn’t actually play the role of a mechanic – well, not in car-repairing sense of the word: he fixes people – for good.
Gulp.
That gorgeously erotic mass of streamlined, pulsating muscles is, in fact, an assassin. But he’s not a ‘shoot ’em first, ask questions later’ kinda guy, he’s smart (as well as sexy) and makes every death appear accidental.

This has nothing to do with the film. I just couldnt resist...

All is going well in his world, until he’s ordered to kill his boss – a man he’s been friends with for the last twenty years…

I won’t tell you any more of the plot and spoil the story – I’ll just say, WATCH IT!

And, guys, you’ll enjoy it, too – there’s action, intrigue, double-crossing, guns, suspense and hot, steamy rumpy-pumpy. Oh boy! Just those scenes’ll keep me in fantasies ’til Christmas.

*squeal*

It’s Spring!

Spring is sprung. The grass is ris.
I wonder where Prince Charming is!  🙂

Adapted, of course, from a famous, intellectual poem about birdies. Yes, that is the full extent of  my knowledge on the subject. And I prefer my version.

Anyway, moving swiftly along – there’s a bunch of workmen building houses across from me and it’s a nightmare; the whole cul-de-sac is clogged up with lorries, vans, diggers, concrete mixers and burly builders.

And this was a quiet morning!

Today I was driving my neighbour home from the dentist and this fuck-off great big lorry was blocking the estate. I pulled up, trying to decide what to do: drive on the pavement? Nope! Not enough room! Reverse and come in the other way? Nope! There is no other way! Yell Politely ask the driver to move? Hmm…possibly…

And then I had that feeling. The same feeling you get when somebody’s watching you… A builder guy was enjoying his ciggie break in a van parked on the pavement next to me. He grinned. I grinned. He got out of his van. I got out of my car.

‘Hi! I don’t suppose you know how long that lorry driver’s gonna be, do you?’
‘Oh, that’s Brian. He’s only just got here and he’s waiting for the truck in front of him to unload. And now he’s chatting and he’s worse than a woman when he gets going. I reckon you’re stuck here for the next couple of hours…’
‘Oh, great!’
‘Well, at least you get to chat to me while you’re waiting!’
‘Oh, well that’s okay then. It’s not as if I’ve got anything more urgent to do!’
‘I Know! Why don’t you drive up on the pavement!’
‘Already thought of that! Too narrow! I’d never get my arse through there, let alone the car!’
‘I could give it a go if you like!’
‘What? Shifting my arse or the car?’
‘How about going in the back way?’
‘Excuse me! I’ve only just met you! Talk about forward!‘
‘Ha ha! I meant another way onto the estate!’
‘Ahh, I already though of that one as well! There isn’t a back way in!’
‘Hmm… so there’s only one thing to do – yell at the driver to move.’

This was seriously freaky; this guy was reading my mind! And boy! was he cute – not in a conventionally rugged and handsome way, but because he was so at ease in his own body, smiley and flirty, open and cheeky, with mischief twinkling in his eyes.  Jeeze! He was the male version of me!

‘There is another option,’ he said with a grin, pointing to the bit of pavement in front of his van. ‘You could always squeeze in, in front of me.’

Oh, be still, my twitching knickers!

‘Ooooh! That’s the best offer I’ve had in a while!’ I squealed in my best Barbara Windsor accent, ‘But I’ve got my disabled friend in the car and she can’t walk that far.’
‘Story of my life! I’ll go and ask him to move for you.’
‘Oh,  that’s so sweet *simper simper* but I don’t wanna interrupt your ciggie break.’
‘No problem!’ he said, flashing me a wink and leaning on his horn (not that one!).
The lorry driver came rushing out, looking all red-faced and confused.
‘Here, mate,’ said my Knight in Dusty Denim, ‘There’s a gorgeous young lady here who needs to get through!’
(I really must stop squealing; I sound like a pig …) ‘Oh,’ I said, innocently, ‘is there someone else waiting as well, then?’

Oh, that wink! Either Builder Guy was flirting or he’s got one serious eye twitch…     😉

Just My Bloody Luck!

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Oooohhh! *Tiny squeals* I must tell you about my latest encounter with a member of the opposite sex!

Last night, around midnight,  I took the dog for his bedtime walk. And guess what, peeps? I was kerb-crawled!  By an officer of the law, no less!

Now, whenever I see a policeman, two things simultaneously flash through my mind:
Oh, God! What have I done? What have I done? I feel so guilty! What have I done?
and,
Corr! A bloke in a uniform! I wonder if he’d let me play with his truncheon…

It’s not my fault. I don’t get out much.

‘Evening, love.’

‘Hello! Just walking my dog!  And look! I’ve got pooper-scooper bags – I never just let him dump in public, you know! Oh no, ‘cos that’s against the law! Has somebody complained? Is that why you’re here? Ohmygod! Are you gonna arrest me? Don’t arrest me! I’m a single mum! I’ve a child at home, asleep, and there’s nobody else to look after him!’

(You probably didn’t notice, but I put a slight emphasis on the fact I’m single…)

‘Oh well, at least you’ve got the dog for company.’

Yes. Thank-you for that.

‘Just walked up Fore Street, have you?’

‘No! Not me! I live in Pauper’s Alley! Why? Is there dog doop all over the road down there, then? It wasn’t me, honestly! Well, of course it wasn’t me! But it wasn’t my dog, either! Honestly!’

‘I’ve just had a call about a disturbance outside the pub. Were you in there, at all?’

I looked down at my fuchsia dressing gown and baby-pink I Love to Sleep pj’s, and shook my head. ‘Nope! Even I don’t go for a pint,  dressed in pyjamas.’

‘So, you didn’t hear raised voices? See anyone fighting?’

‘No. So you don’t wanna arrest me, then? Are you sure? My son’s fifteen. I’m sure he’d be okay on his own for a while…’

‘Well, I suppose I could take you in for public indecency. That dressing gown’s a shocking colour…’

‘Oooh! Yes, please! Would I get to wear handcuffs?’

Just then another call came through on the radio. Something about an argument at the other end of the village. Can you believe my luck?

He was chuckling as he drove off, and I was standing there, wailing ‘Come back! I’m the public! You’re supposed to serve me!’

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Unrelated Jason Statham photo. What? I need cheering up!

I have lots of  ‘blonde’ moments and quite a few ‘incredibly dense’ ones, but I’m not completely stupid. For Doc2 appointment, I’d done my homework and rehearsed a non-confrontational, yet mature and assertive speech, stating all the reasons – quite calmly – why I would like a specialist referral: ‘ Don’t let me die! It’s been so long since I bonked, I’ve reverted to being a virgin! Pleeeeeease! Don’t let me die a born-again-virgin!’

What? I was stressed.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Before I’d even plonked my weighty arse upon the chair, Doc2 slid a piece of paper towards me: ‘I’ve printed out the results of your blood test showing that you don’t have Addison’s.’

Great. Fan-fuckin’-tastic. Now I knew what Doc1 and Doc2 had been discussing over their pre-surgery morning coffee. Well, bring it on!

Tiny: ‘Umm… Who interprets these results? It says at the bottom of the sheet ‘Normal synacthen response’. Who actually made that diagnosis?’

Doc2: ‘Someone at the hospital lab. They are trained, you know!’

Tiny: ‘And roughly how many of these synacthen tests do they process a year, do you think?’

Doc2: ‘Not many. It’s a rare condition. Maybe a handful?’

Tiny: ‘So, nobody specialised in this rare condition has looked at these results?’

Doc2: ‘Well, no.’

Ha! Gotcha!

Tiny: ‘You see, I’ve been in touch with an Addison’s specialist over the weekend, and he says, effectively I failed the test because my cortisol levels didn’t double, and that shows the adrenal glands aren’t working sufficiently well. He says I need to see an endocrinologist for further testing. And I’ve printed out some stuff I found on the web, supporting this view.’  *Tiny slaps a  wad of papers on the desk*

Doc2: ‘Hmm… Well, I don’t know how authentic these reports are. Did you use reputable sites?’

Tiny: ‘Yes. One has come from the official NHS website. And this guy is a leading expert in his field. And this bloke here runs – ‘

Doc2: ‘So, you’d feel happier if I referred you to an endocrinologist?’

Tiny: *squeaks* ‘Yes. Please.’

Doc2: ‘Okay, but in the meantime, I’d like to check out some other possibilities. I want you to see a gynaecologist for a biopsy.’

Tiny: ‘A biopsy? I just had an ultrasound scan and an internal, why would I need –  Oh. I see.’

So, think of me on Monday, having my bits hacked at, because Doc2 would like to rule cervical cancer out of the frame.

But, on the bright side, at least I now have a copy of my synacthen test, stating my response was Normal. So, kids, if I die in the meantime, it’s in the cabinet under my desk, filed under S for Sue the bastards for every fucking penny you can get!

Whatever happened to Perry Bacon?

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The year was 1986: George Michael had big hair and was singing with Wham! Kids all over the country were nervously sitting the new GCSE exams. Margaret Thatcher was busy fucking up the country, but took a day off to open the new M25 motorway – the biggest car park in the world. And I fell in love.

I was 19 and in the second year of my teacher training degree. Although we were affiliated to Hatfield Poly, our campus was in Watford, so us girls would bus over there on a weekend, or they’d come to us and crash on our floors. Not that any of us ever slept – we were too busy with parties and live music, end-of-term balls, country pubs and finding lurve. Who am I trying to kid? We were students. All we wanted was beer and sex.

Oh, they were halcyon days…

And smack bang in the middle of this was Perry Bacon. My First Love. Aged 18, studying chemistry and The Finer Points of Theakston’s Ale. I don’t remember how we met. Oh yes, I do. I was dating his mate, David. He was a bit of a knob, too.

Perry had ADHD, but in those days we just called it annoying. He was funny and loveable and smart. Always laughing, generally causing mayhem, and usually chucking beer. Oh yes, whenever I saw him, we’d end up in an infantile, enthusiastic beer fight. What can I say? We were kids. It was foreplay.

And each night apart we’d feed our food money into cramped campus phone booths and smile our way into the early hours, whispering our fears and breathing our dreams along the phone line.

And the funny thing was, we never once spoke about being in love. Never once said the words out loud, or acknowledged it, even. We were friends. Good friends who just couldn’t stop snogging. I bought him a huge floppy teddy bear and that’s how we communicated: ‘Come for the weekend? Theodore really misses you!’ or ‘Tell Theo I need a Bear Hug!’  

Bear Hugs!

And one day, two years later, it was over. I don’t remember the details, but we were on a train travelling through London. I was crying and then he was gone. Or maybe he left, and then I cried. But there were certainly tears. And he definitely got off the train. And I’m pretty sure it was London.

I bloody loved that bloke, and I often wonder: whatever happened to Perry Bacon?

Re:grets…

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That’s it. My life is over. I’m retiring to bed, broken-hearted, and pulling the duvet up over my head. I shall never love again and will, instead, succumb gracefully to my fate as an old, withered spinster.

My prince Meringue has eaten a poisoned red apple and been bewitched by the affections of another.

‘I’ve just kind of hooked up with someone…I shouldn’t have been speaking to you at all, really…It’s such a shame. We’ve got so much in common, so much to talk about…I’m sorry. I doubt this’ll last though, to be honest. I’ll look you up when I’m back on the site…’

My Destiny has been snaffled. The cow!

I shot off one last message: ‘Good luck, Meringue Man. I really hope things work out for you :-)’

Lovely, kind, big-hearted me, pouring wishes of happiness and great sex on all my fellow love-hunters. And if it all goes tits-up?  I am soo gonna be that booty call! 😉

Carry on Drooling…

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The world is a beautiful place. The sun is shining, the sparrows are twittering and any second now the bunnies’ll start beat-boxing. Not only has Mmm…Meringue Man answered my message, but subsequent e-mails  have been bouncing around faster than a speed addict on a pogo stick. So if your internet’s been really slow for the last twenty-four hours, it’s my fault for clogging up Cyberspace. I’m really sorry, (Did that sound genuine? I’m not sorry at all! Ha, unlucky!)

I’m going for the Audrey Hepburn approach, all cool, calm and quietly sexy, while my inner woman is more Barbara Windsor and keeps squealing at the laptop screen, ‘Corrr! You’re gawjus! I just wanna eat ya! Come on then, darlin’ – show us yer bits!’ 

She is the cross I have to bear.

Good job that Meringue Man has a playful streak. Reply to an e-mail and the subject title comes up with Re:, right? Well, we’re playing Wordgames, and I do so love it when a gorgeous man wants to play with me. My favourites so far…Re:asons to be cheerful, Re:member me?, Re:S.P.E.C.T, and of course, Re:light my fire.

Audrey is scornful but Barbara’s having a whale of a time.

Jason Statham. Now there’s a guy who doesn’t faff with exfoliation…

Well, I’ve bitten the bullet, done the deed and shaved the hairy donkey. (I made up that last one, by the way) I’ve joined an online dating site! I’m looking for a man. A real man. A man with stubble, and dry patches on his cheeks ‘cos moisturising’s for girls. A man who loves and respects his mum, but doesn’t still live by her rules.  Or in her house. A man who has a fine pair of testicles, and knows how to use them.

Oh, and a pulse would be good, too.

I mean, look at him! You’d never catch Jason Statham faffing in front of a mirror, exfoliating, or hot-oiling his locks. He’d be down the gym, or working out, or smacking some wimpy guy’s head against a wall. Not that I’m condoning violence; wimpy guys have feelings, too. But this guy just oozes testosterone and sex appeal. God, you’d never want to get out of bed. Unless, of course, he was waiting for you in the shower…

Oh be still, my twitching knickers!

So now, I’m on a mission; there has to be one middle-aged, unattached, emotionally healthy bloke lurking somewhere in Cornwall. Doesn’t there? Just one, surely.

And once I’ve found him – well, I’m not sure I can remember what to do with him. I mean, it’s been so long, I expect it’s all done by computer these days. Is that what these social networking sites are all about?

A quick Tweet, anyone?

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• Jason Statham shirtless for Men’s Health (pinkbananaworld.com) But have a cold compress handy, girls. This guy is hot.

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