Aunty's in The Other Place

Aw. I feel nostalgic, logging in here. Anyway; fickle beast that I am, I've defected. Packed my blog up in a sparkly handbag, and taken it elsewhere. I wonder; am I allowed to mention The Other Place? Maybe not. Anyway: I've gone somewhere else. To Press my Words.

I can say no more.

Love and fondness

Aunty
x

Beauty, belly dancing, bread

This week I have been treating myself to some very beauteous things from the interweb. They're all for belly dancing - yes, Aunty is a belly dancer. Make of this what you will.

Separately; a very dear pal bought a breadmaker, but since we live many miles apart, I lamented that it would be some time before I'd get an opportunity to taste her home made bread. Not so; this very morning, beautifully wrapped and packaged, came a slice of bread, with a hand written note informing me that it was multi seed white.

What heavenly things the universe delivers, no? Know this: the letterbox is your friend.
Love, as ever

Aunty
x

A Scientific Question

So; this stuff about alcohol being "bad" for one. I'm not convinced. Once, for a full week, I ate nothing, and just drank. I lost two days; but they were Monday and Wednesday, the most troublesome days of the week. I also lost a stone. So how, HOW, I say, is that proof that it's a "bad" "thing"?

Thank you.

Aunty's lost all her words!

Gasp! The, the, a friend, the, and then, but, the


So; darlings. My pal has just told me that her father follows this blog. THIS blog. I might tell you that Aunty was in awe of this chap thirty years ago, and the idea that he might now be reading my words makes me stumble more than a gallon of cheap Rioja. Silver-screeny, he is. Gasp.

Lord. I'll have to start writing something interesting and pithy pretty damn soon, no?

AAAIIIYYYEEEEE! Who's handing out these driving licences?

It's not a generalised attack on women; no, it's specifically about a dopey-arsed tart whom I encountered this afternoon.

Firstly, I have to say that it's lovely that she took the time to paint herself the colour of mahogany. It's also just splendid that she's bleached and straightened her hair so comprehensively that it bears no resemblance to a natural fibre and could accurately be classed as man-made. It's also adorable that she's paying homage to the England football team by dressing like every WAG that ever stumbled on to the pavement with a Cricket bag held aloft for maximum exposure.

What I don't appreciate is that, having put the top down on her car, she's re-enacting every cheesy car advert she's ever seen, by DRIVING WITH ABANDON IN THE SUNSHINE, CRUSTY HAIR BEING TOSSED AROUND, AT 60 MILES AN HOUR THROUGH A CAR PARK, DIRECTLY TOWARDS ME, VEERING AWAY AT THE LAST MOMENT TO THROW THE CAR WITH ABANDON IN TO A PARKING SPOT.

It's not that I don't enjoy the excitement; I also didn't mind having an opportunity to watch my life flash before my eyes, since it did provide such wonderful, magnificent viewing.

But really; who in Hades is handing out driving licences to these pokey-arsed little bitches?

And: rest.

Thank you.

Aunty
x

Emmeline Pankhurst has failed on the roads

Nowhere is Emmeline Pankhurst's legacy less in evidence than on the roads. Why oh why oh why oh why (etc) do so many women drive as though they're tentatively giving it a go, in the hope that someone will come along and give them permission to do it properly?

Get in the car, grow some balls, and get on.

Thank you.

xx

Bosom etiquette and petrol prices

I put petrol in my car. When I finished, the total wasn't a figure; it just read "You owe us a kidney". From now on, I shall be driving at twenty miles per hour in fourth gear. I may even buy a driving hat and gloves. And I could get a tartan picnic blanket and fold it neatly and put it on the parcel shelf.

So. I was out and about, and some things came to my attention about summer attire. Women: know your rack. Twice, I saw women wearing fitted tops, with strapless bras beneath. How do I know they were strapless? Why, because the elastic around the top of the bra was chopping these women's racks in half horizontally. The four-bosom look doesn't work, ladies. Buy a mirror.

Maxi dresses; they're all the rage, no? Marvellously voluminous, but really loves - if you're wearing one, make sure it fits. There is nothing so unseemly as a woman constantly tugging at the fabric beneath her armpits in an effort to make sure her frock isn't falling down.

And lastly, in a league quite her own; a pregnant woman. She must have been a size 8, with a huge bump. A proper, neat and tidy, though huge, bump. And she was wearing a zebra print frock. A figure hugging, tight, zebra print frock. As she walked towards me, I couldn't take my eyes off it; it was like watching a flame. Or J-Lo's behind.

Anyway. The sun is out, and the Pimms is on order. Oh yes; not for me the tedium of going to the shop. I have a man who brings the Pimms to me. This is what you should all be aspiring to. I like to set the bar high.

Good afternoon to you all, my darlings

Love as ever
Aunty
xx

Two thin is better than one thick

When you're doing your nails, darlings, remember: two thin coats of nail polish. Not just one big gloopy coat.

Also: some advice with regard to cleavage.

Today, Aunty cracked out a new frock, and quite splendid it was too, but this you already know. However, I didn't check it well enough from all angles before I went out - a rookie mistake. When I returned home, having received more solicitous attention from shop staff than even I usually experience, I realised that the neckline was perhaps a little low. Saturday night cleavage is not appropriate for Friday morning at the shops.

So. Keep an eye on The Girls, and do some alterations to your clothes as appropriate.

Thank you. You may continue with your weekend.

Much love, as ever

Aunty
x

It's not a lollipop, you know...

Dear drivers (in particular of course: those in front of the Lushmobile)

Whilst driving, if you happen to see something at the side of the road that looks rather like a six foot tall lollipop, bearing the pattern of a white circle, with a black line running across it rather like a Miss World sash - it means something. Really! I know, it's amazing to think it's not just there for decoration. No indeed! In fact, it pertains to the speed limit on that particular stretch of road. Craziness!

And let Aunty be the first to educate you in the ways of the black and white lollipop - it's telling you that the National speed limit applies. That means 60mph on a single carriageway road, or 70 mph on a dual carriageway or motorway. I know that those terms are really ever so confusing, so allow me to help you out.

If, when you look in your rear view mirror, there is nothing behind you; and if you glance to your right and you see cars flying past at warp speed, you're on a dual carriageway, or a motorway.

On the other hand, if there is a queue of traffic behind you so long that it can be seen from space; if, every once in a while an angry, frustrated, and mildly terrified looking driver manages to pass you at high speed in a low gear, praying all the while that nothing comes round the bend in the other direction, then you're on a single carriageway road. In that situation, you must turn left at the first opportunity, abandon your car, collect your travel rug and your driving hat, and walk the rest of the way.

Bastard.

Slankets and sunglasses

This is why British people are bonkers; it's because of the weather. Aunty's been invited on a picnic, and I'm taking sunglasses, sun cream, and a slanket in case the cold wins over the sun. This country. Tut.

Chin chin, tally ho, etc, etc.


Aunty
x

What a stupid cow I can be

I've managed to follow myself. It happened by accident, but now that I'm here, I have to say: fantastic view.

You will note

That I prefaced - indeed, titled - my last post, "I have nothing to say". Imagine how much I could go on and on if I actually had something to talk about. Though I have a strange feeling that content would get in the way of form, such as it is.

love, etc

Aunty
x

I've nothing to say

And that makes me a little sad. Or maybe it makes me a little light hearted, or maybe it's because I'm light hearted that I have little to say, or maybe it's because I'm a Londoner. Let's go with that.

I was born South of the river, which makes me one of Those Londoners, the best type, I believe, though I moved North of the river when I was about four. So although my accent is more Enfield than Balham (pre-trend), I'm still South London at heart. And on the subject of accents: more than once, I've been told I sound "posh. As if you ride horses."

I also, unaccountably, look Russian, though only to Cypriots. Have I blathered on about this before? Who cares, I'm warming up, so I might as well allow it all to spill forth. Whenever I've been to Cyprus, bar staff have always spoken to me in Russian. Or in something that I don't understand. When I do the English thing ("Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I don't understand what you said at all", as if I'm auditioning for a Noel Coward piece), they reply "Oh! I'm sorry, I thought you were Russian."

Or maybe, whenever I approach a bar, I mis-hear, mis-understand, and mis-remember everything. That's more likely, I should imagine.

In other news: I've got a lovely sunburn, a perfect red square on my chest. You can imagine what a beautifully cut top I was wearing to create such a sunburn. It was black, with white polka dots. Lovely, it was. But yes; now I have Moscow sunburn. And at the weekend I'm expected to appear in public wearing very little. Will I tell you all about that? Perhaps I shall, after the event.

What a tease I am. How will you drag yourselves through the remainder of the week whilst trying to deal with the excitement that's no doubt coursing through you?

You'll cope, I'm sure. Friday's coming, and it brings with it the promise of after-work drinks.

Chin chin, special friends!

Love, as always,

Aunty
x

Old chavs

In general, I don't like the word chav. I think it's uncouth, and below me. Enter your own joke as you wish.

I was pondering, during my morning promenade, about elderly folk of the future. I passed a woman, perhaps in her 70s, who was wearing a very smart navy skirt suit, boxy jacket, sensibly-heeled court shoes, with the most fabulous neatly coiffed hair. The first thought that ambled through my mind was how much she reminded me of a woman called Margaret that I used to work with. But I don't suppose you know Margaret, or her fabulously-sweary surname, so I shan't go down that path.

The second thought was that most women in their 70s and 80s (and most men of that age, too) dress very smartly indeed; smart/casual at all times for the men, skirt suits and sensible heels for the ladies.

It struck me that these folks seemed to have stumbled upon a look that worked for them (in 1954) and stayed with it: fair play to them all. But then a seedier thought crept in; what will the elderly of the future look like?

Well: I'll spare you the trouble of thinking about it, because I've done it for you. They'll look like chavs, that's what they'll look like. Baggy trousers for the men, trainers with the tongues lolling out, that strange one-sided hip gait which, fifty years hence, will be due to arthritis more than attitude.

And the women! Imagine the horror! Old ladies (I use the term loosely) in pink velour Juicy Couture tracksuits, the waistbands clinging perilously to their hips, showing above the waistband not a diamante thong, but their Tena lady pants.

I have seen the future. It wasn't great.

Anyway: the sun is shining, and I look wonderful. So: what more could we wish for? Let's bound hand-in-hand in to the week's open arms. Away!

lots of love,
Aunty
x

Hitler, retro clothing, whore, ice hockey

What tenuous thread links those things? Why; they're all in Aunty's brain today.

I'm reading a book called That Bad Man by Wickham Steed. It purports to be "a tale for the young of all ages", so that's fine. It's about Hitler. Hitler for kids, really; it was written in the 40s. It's marvellous. Thus far I've learned that Hitler's real name was Shicklgruber (which I confess I already know, thanks to Uncle-in-law-Lush), and that he (Hitler, not Uncle-in-law Lush) was by all accounts a lazy arsed bastard who failed at school to spite his parents, and couldn't even be bothered to work hard enough to earn enough money for board, so he arsed about doing nothing, and then slept rough.

It may be propaganda. I don't know. I'm only on page 9.

Retro clothing: my companion and I chanced upon a retro clothing fair. I say "chanced" - I knew when and where it was taking place. I had been avoiding it, for fear of buying every-bloody-thing. But then I happened to be in the town where it was on (I say "happened" - I drove there). Anyway; I bought nothing but tea and cake. Aren't I restrained?

Whore...oh yes, the football. I don't follow football. I don't pay much attention to fame-grabbing whores who sleep with married men and then sell the story. What amused me was the amount of coverage given to whether this whore's original partner would shake hands with the man who schtupped her. OF COURSE HE'S NOT. He knows where that hand has been.

Uncle Lush has been following the Olympics; I've wandered in and out of the room while it's been on. I watched five minutes of ice hockey today, and it was just splendid. Some poor chap took a stick in the face, then the goal fell on top of the goalie, who landed spreadeagled on the ice, as if he was saving the ice from the falling goal.

Wonderful. All in all, a good day.

Good evening, my loves.

x

Really: it's saying something

It really is indicative of one's general demeanour when spam emails are about the only good thing happening. I can confirm that eleven new girls' profiles have been posted, plus, I can apprently bed more chicks in 2010. I like the idea of that. A big bed filled with fluffy little chicks. That'd be soft, eh.

Spam. Prf.

ngf

holy colw it's a wonder.remind me abour spa vochers. i'm not as drunk as that. this,

I was in Tesco. You know this isn't going to go well

Although, big exciting news: Aunty is telepathic!

I could read the mind of the wench in front of me - although to be fair, there wasn't much reading required. She was more of a pamphlet than an epic, but even so: I could read her thoughts! And I'll share them with you here - because I know you simply can't stand the suspense, of course. She was thinking, "My goodness me! This chap seems to require....payment! Imagine! I thought I'd load all this food in to my trolley, slowly - slower than continental drift - and then stroll out of the shop! Payment, eh, there's a rum thing. I'll have a rummage in my bag and see what I can find."

I don't believe that she was telepathic. In fact, I'm certain she wasn't: because if she had been, she'd have turned round and lamped me.

Aunty adores you all, you do know that, yes?

x

I made a New Year's Resolution, once

I vowed to drink vodka.

It culminated in a local cab company refusing to ever deal with me again. Also, whenever my friend (whose party was the scene of this vodka experiment) plans any more parties, his neighbours knock on the door, quivering with fear, asking "that woman isn't coming again, is she?"

Good times. Excellent times.