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