Valley of the Trolley Dollies

At the O2 watching Cirque du Soleil Delirium.

More later…

As I approach the start of my forty-first year on earth - the horror! The Horror!- I find myself becoming more and more like the ubiquitous Mrs Ritchie.

No, I don’t mean I’ve taken to wearing flesh-coloured Playtex Girdles as fashion items - although I do posses a rather Isherwood’s Berlin gentlemen’s corset, which I wear when I have a bad back. Or when the occassion demands. You know: Star Trek conventions, Fetish Parties (is there a difference?) “Don’t Tell Mama” night at the new local pub the Dog ‘n’ Reposession. Tescos.

Nor do I mean I’ve taken to kidnapping adopting children from third world nations: Not after I paid Shannon’s mum the fifty quid and 400 Marlboro “adoption fee,” only to have her stash the bratchild under a divan and leave me voicemail messages saying something in a hideous Northern dialect about the kid “Doin’ a runner, chuck,” before muttering something about barm cakes and screeching to her remaining “bairns” to “Leave t’ fookin’ dog alone!” And hanging up.

No, no more shall Mrs Ritchie and I be in competition for cute infants or foundation garments.

We do, however, have one thing in common:

(more…)

The cook says: I made cheescake last night. Yummy!

The bad son says: I made my mother cry last night. Mummy!