How I'm dealing with my Nuisance Phone Calls

'Hellooo,' squeaked an oriental voice on the crackling phone line. 'Can I speak to Meeeseees Patreeeeca Briiiight, pleeese?'

'Who are you?'

'Pleeease, must speak to Meeseeees...'

'She's not here,' I interrupted abruptly. 'She's in prison - for murder.'

'When will Meeeses Patreeeca be in?'

'Twenty years.' I replied, slamming down the receiver.

For some reason for the past few months I have been bombarded with telephone calls from a certain company. Every single day there is at least two calls from a woman that sounds either Chinese or Japanese and a man with an Asian accent. They both work for a company called 'Consumer Lifestyle' and they are both doing a 'survey'. I have told them not to ring me again. I have been nice and I have even been rude - most unlike me. But they will not give up and seeing as I HAVE to answer the phone for business reasons, I have resorted to saying the most bizarre thing that pops into my head, hence me telling them I couldn't answer the phone because I was serving time for murder :)

I have also told them I'm unavailable because I'm currently on a space mission to Mars/rowing around the world with Prince Charles/climbing Everest with Owen Wilson and painting the Eiffel Tower pink. It doesn't faze them one bit. They don't even act surprised when I come out with it. They just ask when Meeeeseeses Patreeeeca is going to be in!

They call - every single day without fail and it's really annoying me.

I think I made a huge mistake about a year ago when, because I was so fed up with people calling, I actually did a telephone survey with one of these companys and now I must be on some list somewhere!

The survey I did was bizarre to say the least. Each question had multiple choice answers which were: A)Definitely B)Maybe C)Would think about it

A snippet of the survery went like this:

Woman: Are you considering blinds for your conservatory? Definitely, maybe or would think about it?

Me: No.

Woman: There isn't a no. It has to be one of the three choices.

Me: But I don't want blinds.

Woman: But you have to choose. It's the rule.

Me: Why isn't there a no?

Woman: Please choose one of the three.

Me: Oh well...what's the least choice?

Woman: I'll put you down for would think about it.

After completing the survey I was then bombarded with phone calls from various companies.

'Hello. You have expressed an interest in having double glazing.'

ME: 'No. I haven't.'

'Ah. But you did a survey and said you were interested in double-glazing.'

ME: Yes, but I wasn't REALLY interested. I just had to choose the least one.'

'Well, we've got you down as interested. One our our reps is in the area...'

ME: 'For crying out loud I've already got xxxxx double-glazing!!!!'

If it wasn't double-glazing it was conservatory blinds, garden landscaping, life insurance, pet insurance, mobile phones, computers, television - you name it they called.

I was asked to sponsor leopards, tigers, donkeys, guide dogs for the blind and half of the children in the third world. It wouldn't have surprised me if I'd been asked to give money to the Eurozone crisis! ('Hello, we understand you are interested in helping Greece with their debts???)

And now I have the terrible twins calling me daily. No matter what I say, they still call religiously. I googled 'Consumer Lifestyles' and apparently they are bothering a lot of people, judging by the irate postings on various forums!

So, now I wait for their next call. What shall I say to them next time?

Suggestions, anyone???

Dogs must be kept on a lead...so you think your dog is the exception???

Please tell me, people. What is not to understand about that sign?

You are walking across a field, where although sheep are not currently present judging by the sheep poo everywhere, clearly they occupy the field on a regular basis. Plus there's a blooming great big sign telling you your dog should be on a lead!

Obviously some people think it doesn't apply to them because this morning, very early, we took our little dogs for a walk. We go early so as to avoid coming in contact with other dogs because our dogs are so small and lately there has been some horror stories of small dogs being killed by larger ones.

we entered a field that runs alongside the river, dogs are allowed here if they are on a lead and there is a big sign saying just that 'dogs must be on a lead' No problem for us, we never let our dogs off their leads. But in the distance we saw a man walking in the far field and he has a dog running wild and free. We kept a close watch on the dog and decided to leave the field and walk across the old bridge. The dog, a sheepdog, soon caught us up. His owner still walking nonchalantly along some way behind.

The sheepdog bounded up to one of our dogs and nipped it. It probably just wanted to play but immediately I shouted at my husband to pick our dog up. This made the sheepdog react. He threw himself at my husband, biting his arm and his leg. He clearly wanted him to put down our little dog. We tried to get away from him by leading our dogs behind an old, disused toilet block but the sheepdog followed. All the while trying to bite our dogs. We shouted at the dog and we shouted at the owner - who still wasn't bothered. We tried walking away, we tried standing perfectly still but the sheepdog kept attacking us and in particular my husband who was being bitten by the dog as it jumped up at him. My husband tried putting our dog on the ground hoping the sheepdog would lose interest, but that just made our little dog immediately flattened himself on the floor in terror because the sheepdog starting nipping him again.

My husband, trying to keep the sheepdog at bay, yelled at the owner to get his dog under control. The owner now woke up to the fact we were in trouble! He tried but his dog wasn't listening, he just kept on throwing himself at my husband trying to get our dog out of his arms.

Eventually, the dog ran back in the field and the owner managed to get him on his lead.

'Didn't you see the sign?' my husband asked him.

His reply, for some reason, was to tell my husband to 'shut-up.'

It all ended all right - this time. The owner eventually apologised. But we were really shaken and our dog is now traumatised.

My husband said: 'It was awful. I've read of owners and pets being attacked so many time in the paper and suddenly I was one of them.'

So, please, please. If you are thinking of getting a dog and you want to go for walks get a big dog, one that can stand up for itself if it gets attacked. And if you have a big dog, please keep it under control. Under the Dogs (Protection of Livestock Act 1953) and the Dogs Act 1871 you have a responsibility to keep your animal under control. Your dog could be put down, even shot by a farmer if caught worrying animals.

I think it will be awhile before I go out dog walking again!

Turning Japanese...I really think so

A few months ago my son introduced me to the NHK channel - Japan Broadcasting Corporation which broadcasts in English and Japanese and thus began my love affair with all things Japanese.

There are two really good shows.

'Begin Japanology'

Japanese people manage to make an art form out of absolutely everything and as for practicality? I'd visit Japan just to go to the toilet! They have the most innovative, thoughtful (yes, thoughtful, their public toilets play music to cover embarrassing noises) and practical toilets in the world. But I digress, because the other programme I'm hooked on is:

Your Japanese Kitchen

This cookery programme is brilliant and has got me trying out recipes which can be found on the NHK Channel web site.

But we're often stuck for ingredients - where to buy them? I can hardly walk into the local co-op and asked for Dashi stock. Blimey, you're lucky to get an oxo cube in there!

And then my son found an online Japanese food store called The Japanese Kitchen and we were like kids in a sweet shop. We even ordered chopsticks!

Sake, Mirin and Shoya Soya sauce

Dashi stock

We even bought sweets! Which were...interesting.


I wish we didn't live in the middle of nowhere because I'd love to go to a real Japanese restaurant and I'd love to visit Japan. I've just watched Idiot Abroad and Karl Pilkington bought a little gadget to pick up crisps out of the packet to save your hands getting all greasy, as they do. See? Practicality! I think I'd go absolutely crazy over there and come home with a suitcaseful of gadgets!

Anyway, I'm off to make some Japanese pancakes now, anyone want to join me?

Rude People

I am never rude to people. Even when customers have been nasty to me or unfair or just down right obnoxious, I don't retaliate. I may go home and kick the fridge, stand in the middle of my garden and scream a lot of expletives or bash out my feelings on my blog but I am never, EVER rude to them.

But today I could have quite cheerfully pinned my customer to the floor and called him every name under the sun. For too many years than I like to think about, we have stoically stuck at out cleaning business. Turning up for work when we're clearly not well, dropping everything to help customers out, being punctual, honest, trustworthy and generally given our all. So when one tells us we don't do a proper job and have a bad attitude, I am shocked because it is clearly not true and we've twenty-four years worth of very happy customers to back me up on that!

This person was obnoxious to the extreme. A bully. A nit picker and one of the rudeness people I have ever met. SO rude that we did something we have never done in all our years of working, we walked out of the job before finishing and before being paid. It was that bad.

And it now makes me want to go and live on a remote little island where I don't have to deal with anyone because lately I've noticed that people in general are getting more and more aggressive.

You have only got to go out in your car to know that. People don't so much as give you a nod of thanks when you give way to them.

In the supermarket people push in or ram their trollies into you if you are in the way. It's a me, me, me society whereby people only care for themselves. There is no respect for others.

If I thought someone wasn't doing a job as well as I expected, I wouldn't be nasty. I'd just politely talk to them about it. But this obnoxious individual seemed to think that by being a bully we would immediately kowtow to him. We were working in his establishment and when he saw us he didn't even greet us, his immediate reaction was to start telling us off. Well, when you don't have your carpets cleaned for years and years and years and some of them are so caked in grease you can't see the pattern, can you honestly expect them to come brand new? Even though we were doing a really good job, it wasn't good enough for him and I suspect it was all a ruse to get out of paying us.

So we walked and that's a first and I am heartily sick of cleaning up for people. I had been having a lull in my writing, feeling I wasn't getting anywhere so what was the point? But today's experience has made me realise that I am too good to be the slave of nasty, rude people who just think my husband and I are thick cleaners who can be spoken to like dirt.

The worm has finally turned. I'm not putting up with rude people anymore. Next one that does it - watch out!

The Killing - Forbrydelsen

I've never really thought much about Denmark or Danish people except to say I've always hated their intensive pig farming, which is downright cruel.

But I've just finished watching the first series of the absolutely brilliant and totally compelling Danish thriller - The Killing or 'Forbrydelsen' Suddenly I can almost forgive (but not quite) the pig farming.

For me, this brilliant television series ranks alongside The Wire and Generation Kill.

Thank you BBC 4 - long may you reign - for bringing this superb series to us. And yes, it's with sub titles but that makes it even better because you don't miss one word of the script.


I loved the brilliant writing, moody cinematography, superb acting and soundtrack that subtly wrapped itself around each scene. I loved that every twist and turn of the story sent you scurrying down paths only to find you were without resolution yet again. I loved that it kept you guessing until the very end as you watched with anticipation every thread of the story weave itself together.

I loved Lars Mikkelsen as Troels Hartmann, the tall, smouldering politician whose election campaign becomes embroiled in a murder investigation.

But most of all, I loved Sofie Grabol as DCI Sarah Lund for the fact that she managed to make unkempt hair scraped back in a ponytail, no makeup, old jeans and flat shoes look cool.

I shall be adopting the Scandi scruffy look from now on...

Vegetarian, vegan or freegan?

Yesterday I skidded across the patio decking like a lorry hitting a patch of ice (not that I am the size of a lorry, I hasten to add - well, not since I gave up sugary things, that is.)

'That's odd,' I thought, as I hit the railings that prevented me from going head first into the garden below. Odd because my husband had gone to great pains to paint the deck with anti-slip paint which, apparently, is supposed to stop you slipping and ending up on your backside when the deck gets wet. Something I am prone to do, with or without the assistance of alcohol. I looked down to see why I had taken off across the deck like a speed skater. I had slipped on a slug. A very dead slug since I'd pretty much smeared it across the deck a bit like you spread butter on bread.

I felt so, so bad. I know they eat up my plants and look pretty vile, but well, God must have created them for something and it's not like they can help the way they look. By the way, I have to tell you, hedgehogs don't like slugs and only eat them if they are starving. Slugs can also kill hedgehogs, they get lung worms from them. Just thought I ought to mention that...

So, back to the slug. You see, I won't kill anything. Wasps (even though their sting can send me to hospital) spiders (even though I'm absolutely terrified of them) Craneflies aka daddy longlegs (even though they'd definitely be in my room 101)

I feel I have no right to take the life of anything and I go out of my way to give any insect a safe passage to where ever its going (even though it's usually accompanied with a soundtrack of me screaming like a banshee - quite honestly they are probably glad to leg it!)

I also love animals.

I won't drink milk because I hate the way some dairy cows and their calves are treated, especially male calves.

If I eat an egg, very rarely, it has to be from a hen that has a happy life.

I hate battery hen farms and don't eat chicken because I can't stand how they are killed.

It breaks my heart to think of how short a life a lamb has.

So, if I care so much about all of God's creatures - big and small - why can't I commit to becoming a vegetarian, like my husband who has been one for decades?

This is why - bacon.

My reluctance to become a vegetarian can best be described by what happened to me last week. I had gone into town to run some errands. My car was parked in the town's square. As I walked from the bank to the post office to the newsagent, a smell of fried bacon wafted through the narrow streets. I finished my errands and started walking back to my car. My mind was, as usual, elsewhere. Five minutes later I stopped and realised I wasn't walking back to my car I was subconsciously following the smell of bacon and had walked to the door of a cafe!

If I see a bacon butty I have the ability to completely block my mind to the fact that I know some pigs are treated abominably. Living their short lives in pens so small they can't even turn around. Yet, waft fried bacon in front of my nose and I forget all about that. And I hate myself for it.I have tried vegetarian bacon, my husband says it's better than nothing. But it just tastes like smoky bacon crisps.

My diet is 99.9% vegetarian. I live on tofu, only drink soya milk and even my yogurts are made from soya. In fact I'm probably closer to being a vegan that my husband, who still eats cheese and drinks milk.

This is a vegan burger.

I find vegan recipes really interesting. My favourite cook book is Vegan with a Vengeance and I love making vegan cupcakes because they are so interesting to construct.

And yet bacon is the undoing of me! Why, oh why can't I give it up?

Perhaps I should take comfort from Ghandi, who despite promising his mother he would not eat meat or eggs and was practically a vegan himself, could not bring himself to give up cows milk, saying it was the tradegy of his life that he could not give it up.

At least I'm in good company...

My son says we should all become freegans (anti-consumerist lifestyle whereby people employ alternative living strategies - thank you Wikipedia) or to put it in plain English 'bin scavengers' Apparently, there's tons of very good food chucked out every day. One fella found a whole bin bag of cider, 150 chickens, steaks and cheese in a bin behind a supermarket.

So, if you'll excuse me - I'm just off to have a nosey round the back of the Co-op!

Rioting, robbing and mindless thuggery

Many, many years ago when I was about to marry my first husband, we had to move the wedding venue. This was because we were supposed to get married at Brixton registry office and we didn't want several burnt out vehicles and brick strewn roads as the back drop to our wedding photos. Our wedding date landed in the middle of the Brixton Riots.

And here we are today. Only worse. Mindless thugs who can connect with each other far more easily than back in 1981, causing unbelievable destruction in cities all over Britain. Destroying property and lives as they rampage the streets. Burning down a hundred year old building in Croydon. A building that had survived two wars. Robbing a distressed and injured young man as they pretended to help him. Beating a man - who now is a critical condition - because he tried to put out fires the thugs had set alight in two bins.

Britain is reaping what it has sown. Teachers are not allowed to discipline. Policemen are not allowed to punish. Parents are not allowed to smack. If a kid gets into trouble he's more likely to be taken to Alton Towers for a day out than punished. We have to feel oh so sorry for these poor thugs because they need to build up their self esteem. If any one retaliates against them they are the ones to get into trouble. Shop keepers got in trouble last night for defending their properties with force.

They say they are rioting because they have no future. Half of them are still at school. Well, thugs. Get your back sides back in class, learn something and give yourselves a future! There's a lot of decent young men and women soldiers who have died in Afghanistan - they're the ones with no future.

It disgusts me to see them putting pictures on Facebook of them posing with the spoils of their looting. They really have no shame. I'm guessing that most of them have parents. Parents who are probably scared of their own kids. Didn't one thug boldly say he was joining in the riots and there was nothing his parents could do to stop him?

Years ago kids hanging around town getting up to no good, were given a clip round the ear by the local bobby and told to get off home. I remember a lad at school getting the cane for using the F word. Kids that got up to mischief were often marched home by the local bobby to face the wrath of their parents. Yes, I know some teachers, parents and policemen took it too far and kids were punished excessively on occasion But far better that than this out-of-control society we live in today.

Young people have always rebeled against society. It's what young people do. But once it was long hair and rock-and-roll now it's knives, guns and hoodies.

We are living under a culture of fear. If a person drops litter on the floor and you tell them to pick it up, if you see someone doing criminal damage and you try to stop them, if you interven in any way - you now would quite literally be risking your life.

I spoke to an elderly gentleman the other day and he told me he was glad he was getting to the end of his life because he'd rather be leaving this world than entering it.

A sad indictment of society today.

Old Wives Tales

'Quick give me some numbers for the lottery,' my mum-in-law shouted at my son as he fell UP the stairs.

'What?' my son said, rubbing his shin, where two purple bruises were fast appearing.

'It's lucky to fall up the stairs,' mum-in-law explained. 'Give me some numbers and I'll pop in to the co-op on my way home and get a ticket.'

My son shook his head and reeled off a string of random numbers.

'You'll be a millionaire tonight,' mum-in-law said confidently.

Needless to say -- he wasn't.

But it set me thinking about old wives tales and, to be honest, I think I must have spent the first years of my life totally believing most of them because they spilled out of my nana's mouth like a verbal waterfall and were spoken with absolute conviction.

When I was about thirteen or fourteen I was seriously teased at school because of my hairy arms. Let me say I am by no means a hairy person. I've hardly ever needed to shave under my arms or my legs because God thought it would be fun to put the entire lot on my forearms. Fortunately, they were white blonde hairs, but that didn't stop the kids at my school mercilessly teasing me about them.

However, this didn't faze me because as I walked away from the bullies and their taunts of 'gorilla arms' echoing in my wake I knew one thing was for sure. My nana had told me that if you had hairy arms it meant you were going to be rich. I was utterly convinced that I was going to be fabulously wealthy. I was also utterly convinced I would lead a very long life because she also told me people with long ear lobes lived longer that people with short ones.

As a youngster, I actually used to feel sorry for people with little ear lobes because I thought they weren't going to last long!

Well, I'm still waiting to be fabulously wealthy and the jury's still out on the long life thing.

It was all porky pies. Old wive tales.

Nana also told me if you crossed on the stairs there was going to be a row. And if knives crossed on the table there would be a row, too. In fact, there were so many ways a row could be caused that, as a kid, I spent most of my time trying to avoid them happening. It was quite stressful!

My mum was no better. She told me if I ate the remnants of cake mixture in the bowl after she'd made a cake I would most certainly be inflicted with worms. I was terrified of raw cake mixture! Until one day, when I walked in the kitchen to see my mum scraping the bowl and shovelling it in her mouth.

I have eaten mountains of crusts to get the curly hair that alluded me. Lamented over the mirror I broke because my nana said it meant I was to experience seven years of bad luck. And if I ever went to open an umbrella indoors she would screech at me to stop because apparently that would give me a huge dollop of bad luck, too. If I pulled a face, she would say if the wind changed my face would be stuck that way. And the times I saw her chuck salt over her left shoulder after she's spilt a bit on the table.

Of course some old wives tales have been proven to have a grain of truth in them. For example, drinking warm milk makes you sleepy. An apple a day keeps the doctor away and chicken soup is good for a cold. And even carrots being good for your eyes. They don't actually make you see in the dark which was the reason I consumed fields of carrots as a kid, but they do reduce the risk of getting macular degeneration when you are older which I guess makes up for the disappointment of not having eyes with super powers.

But the thing I'm most peeved about is not so much an old wives tale as a myth. The myth that denied me years of selection boxes -- the ones my auntie would buy me at Christmas.

'Nooooo! You can't eat those,' nana would squeal as she snatched the box out of my hand while simultaneously slipping in her false teeth.

'Why not?

'Don't you know chocolate gives you spots? You eat all that chocolate and you'd be riddled with acne.'

'I will?'

'Riddled!' Nana said emphatically. 'You'll look like Job in the bible when he had all those boils and stuff. You'll never get a boyfriend.'

'I will! I won't!' I said, recoiling in horror at the brightly coloured box. 'Well, what shall do with them?'

'Leave them with me,' nana said reassuringly. 'I'll get rid of them.'

'Oh, thank you, Nana. I don't want to have spots.'

'Just looking out for you, dear.'

I have more than a sneaky suspicion those chocolates went the same way as the left over cake mixture -- just in a different mouth.

Were you fed any wives tales? I'd love to hear them.

Never judge a book by the rustling of its pages

I picked up the telephone and heard the voice.

'Can you come and clean my carpet? Up on the farm, it is.'

A mental picture popped into my head.

Greasy cap, well-worn jacket, green, sheep-poo splattered wellies and a jovial yet weather-beaten face.

He was nice. Chatty and friendly. We arranged to go up to his farm the following Monday.

Monday came. You know Mondays? They are horrible. Mondays should be banned. No one wants to make an effort on a Monday. I rolled out of bed and stared at my greasy locks in the bathroom mirror. I should have washed it over the weekend. Oh well, it was only a farmer. What did it matter? Should I wear make-up? Nah. Couldn't be bothered. Contact lenses? Couldn't be bothered with them, either. I plopped on my old specs. They would do. Who's going to see me?

We drove up a winding, narrow lane to the farm. See? Just as I thought. A little old farmer. He wouldn't mind if I looked a tad scruffy today. It was Monday, after all.

The farm was old and rambling. I climbed out of the van, walked up to the door and rang the bell. The door opened and my jaw hit the floor and bounced back up again.

Oh,****!

'Hello,' I said in a strangled voice as my hands, instinctively, tried to smooth my greasy, uncombed hair. 'Er...we've come to clean your carpet.'

'Hello,' he beamed.

Let me tell you, he was definitely not a little old farmer in a greasy cap and well-worn jacket.

Mid 40s? Very smartly dressed. And that wasn't the smell of sheep-poo wafting over me, it was cologne. Expensive cologne. And if that wasn't bad enough he was then joined by his equally smart brother.

And then I looked at his shoes and my heart sank.

No green wellies. Smart shoes. Really nice, smart shoes. The kind of shoes men in the city wear with their equally smart suits.

Look at your feet, dear readers. What do you see? Shoes tell people everything about you.

I looked at my feet. Scuffed trainers with a spot of bleach on each toe.

'Come in and see the carpet,' he said.

'Um. I'll just fetch my husband first,' I mumbled as I fled.

Husband was propping up the van, reading the back page of the newspaper. He looked no better. His baggy, old combat trousers bore a few patches his mum had sewn on. He hadn't shaved and he was wearing his P.C. Plod shoes. They have a bit of a bump on each toe. He got them off eBay, says policemen wear them and they're very comfy (They look a bit like clown shoes but I haven't the heart to tell him.)

I knocked him out of the way, swung open the van door and dived into my bag, hoping in vain there was an old forgotten mascara lurking in the bottom or at the very least -- a comb.

There was nothing.

And even if there was. What was I going to do? Slap a load of make-up on my face. What would the farmer have thought? (actually he wouldn't have thought anything because it turned out he danced at the other end of the ballroom but I wasn't to know that at the time, was I?)

'What are you doing?' husband said, annoyed, as he picked his paper off the floor.

'Why did you let me leave the house looking like this?' I snapped.

'What? You look all right?'

'Well, you would say that, wouldn't you?'

I peered in the wing mirror. Errwww. I looked a sight. Licked my fingertips and ran them over my eyebrows, as if that was going to make a difference!

Now you, dear readers, probably look lovely without make-up. All fresh and clear-skinned.

But me?

How do I describe myself?

Okay, well maybe I'm not this bad and I do have hair.










Actually, as for my hair? I'd give a Heron's nest a run for its money, anyday. In fact once, a few years back, I was sitting in the garden and a sparrow landed on my head. Several rather rude people, who shall not be named, said it probably mistook my hair for it's nest and if I stayed still long enough I might get a few eggs laid on it.


I decided to hide as much as possible. Let the husband be the scruffy focal point. He wouldn't care. He has a cardigan with holes the size of the Grand Canyon in the elbows. He says he's waiting for me to 'darn' them. Darn? What is 'darn'? Does anyone 'darn' these days??

So I hid in the farmers outhouse where my husband had sent me to fill buckets of water for his carpet cleaning machine.

'Well, aren't you going to help?' husband whined when he noticed me loitering in the outhouse.

I looked both ways. Coast was clear.

'It's all right for you,' I retorted. 'You'd turn up to meet the Queen in those trousers. I've got pride, y'know? That man must think we're a right pair of scruffs!'

Husband rolled his eyes and stalked off into the house.

'Coffee?' the farmer called out.

My shoulders slumped.

'Chocolate biscuits?'

'Lovely. Very kind of you,' I mumbled, avoiding eye contact. I swear he must have thought I was a bit simple. Probably thought my husband brought me along because my carer was having a day off.

We did the job and to say he was charming was an understatement. He was absolutely lovely and so was his brother. And by far the best dressed Welsh farmer I have ever seen.

On the way home, I stared at my husband's stubbly chin and sighed.

'Y'know we really should make a bit more of an effort,' I said.

Husband shrugged nonchalantly.

'And those trousers are going in the bin for starters,' I added.

I've given myself a big slap on the wrist. Even if our customer had turned out to be a wizzened old farmer with a tweed jacket and milk-bottle glasses, it wouldn't have made a difference, only our best is good enough, whether it's our work or our appearence.

And as for me - I am NEVER leaving the house without my makeup on! You never know who you're going to meet. I mean, it could have been Jose Mourinho. Mmm. Up a Welsh mountain - maybe not.

Cat Wars

Well, I was more than a little depressive in my last blog so today I'm writing about something entirely different.

We are at War. With our neighbours cats.

When we moved into our house it had a rather large garden and, to be honest, I ain't big on gardening. I can barely tell a plant from a weed. So there was never going to be neat little rows of bedding plants or luscious bushes with latin names.

What we did want though was a garden where all wildlife would be welcome. So while we kept the grass cut and the garden relatively weed free, we did allow a few patches of nettles for the butterflies and a rotting log pile for anything that fancied taking up residence. And for our effort (or lack of effort, I should say) we were truly blessed. We saw hedgehogs scuttling by in the evening. Squirrels pinching nuts from the nut feeder, the odd heron landing near our pond. A pond in which newts and frogs thrived. But most all we attracted birds. We even got a family of Hawfinch, which here in Britain are on the decline. We loved doing the RSPB big bird watch thing because we could proudly list all the birds we had atttracted to our garden.

One day I counted 17 yellowhammers sitting in our tree. The tree looked like it was in flower. Hours and hours we spent watching the wild birds. We did everything we could to help them survive the hard winters and they rewarded us by bringing their chicks to feed at our bird table.

And then...

Our neighbours acquired SIX cats between them.

Two of the cats were quite clearly natural born killers.

This is one of them. She's called Sharpay. We call her Shar-killer.

These two cats flung themselves at our bird table, snatching birds in front of our very eyes. They were so fast and so agile.

'This is war,' my husband said, rolling chicken wire around the bottom of the bird table. 'Trying getting up that!' he added, smugly.

'No problem,' came the retort ten minutes later when we saw Sharpay flying through the air like Jet-Li. She knocked a bird off the table, grabbed it in her mouth and took off down the garden.

'I don't believe it!' Husband said, horrified. 'Did you see that?'

Plastic cat proof spiky things were nailed onto the bird table.

'Put your paws on that!' husband said. 'You won't be in such a hurry to jump up next time will you?'

'What was that you said?' asked the other killer, a black and white cat (don't know its name), as it snatched a chaffinch and belted across our deck.

More rolls of chicken wire were rolled around the garden (this is all based on the googled fact that cats don't like chicken wire, I add)

'Trying getting in now, you little blighters.'

A few minutes later Sharpay strolled across our lawn as if to say 'you have got to be joking.'

'I'm not giving up,' husband said with gusty determination.

More spiky things were nailed to the tops of all fences.

Did it stop them getting in? No!

We have two little dogs. One of whom knows the word 'cat' very well and takes off at great speed down the garden if we say it out loud. He even did two laps round the pond with the black & white cat before it scurried up a tree.

Did he scare the cats off?

No. The cats take great delight in teasing him from a safe distance.

'I'll buy some lemon balm and plant it near the bird table,' I suggested. 'Apparently birds can't stand the stuff.'

'Don't bother,' my mum-in-law said dryly. 'Lady at church planted it all over her garden. The cats sleep on it.'

'There's nothing for it,' I said. 'We'll just have to stop feeding the birds. Putting food out is like luring them onto a sacrificial alter.'

'I'm not letting those cats win,' Husband said emphatically. 'We'll all have to take turns.'

'For what?'

'Sentry duty.'

'You do mornings. I'll do tea-time,' he instructed.

So now if we put out any bird food, one of us has to stand guard.

And while I've never pined for the type of garden that would have featured in Homes & Gardens, I also didn't want one that resembled a barricaded compound.

The only ones that can't move around the garden are us! Trying to reach the washing line is like partaking in an army assault course.

And worse, we have noticed lately that the two killers have started working together - like a couple of highly trained assassins.

Fortunately, the two youngest cats haven't quite got the hang of killing yet - thank goodness. They are still at the Shrek's Puss in Boots stage. If you catch them in the garden they just look at you all adorable.

I love cats. I just don't love them when they kill. There is one next door called Ryan and he is a lovely. He can't be bothered to chase after birds. He's more interested in exploring our house. I found him sitting in our bath one night and my son says there has been conspicuous cat hairs on a warm patch on his bed and the sighting of a fluffy tail leaving through the bedroom window.

But as for the other two. We despair.

Apparently in order to thwart a cat you have to think like one. So that's the next plan. So for now.

Meow!

Ratko Mladic

So the long arm of the law has finally caught up with Ratko Mladic, the evil creature (I won't dignify him by calling him a man) who is accused of genocide.

When I saw the frail sixty-eight-year-old being led away I didn't feel jubilant that they'd caught him at last, my mind was too preoccupied with thoughts of the people he'd mercilessly ordered to be killed. Devoid of any conscious without pity or compassion he sent thousands to their graves. One of the ruthless killers who brought horrific ethnic cleansing back to Europe less than half a century after Hitler tried to wipe out the Jews.

I read an article by Phillip Sherwell (Daily Telegraph) who wrote about Mladic and how his campaign to kill Muslims reached its climax in the summer of 1995 when Bosnian Serb forces led 7,000 men and boys into fields where they were executed and buried in mass graves.

I tried to imagine the fear that went through those poor people being led to their deaths and the mothers, wives, sisters who watched helplessly.

I thought about the moments in my life when I had felt true fear. The day at the seaside when my little boy went missing (thankfully he was found). The doctor telling me I had cancer. The moment I realised my mum was dying.

That fear was unlike anything I had ever experienced before. A cold terror that ran up my spine and enveloped me. The most terrible, all-consuming dread of what was about to happen. We all get scared sometimes but true fear is indescribable.

Imagine for a moment what those people, and millions more in history like them, went through. The reality of what Mladic is accused of comes crashing home and we should never forget victims of such atrocities.

It doesn't matter what happens to Mladic if he is convicted he will never pay for what he has done. Nothing comes close to punishing such people and there have been many throughout history. Without giving it too much thought I can think of the obvious ones such as Stalin and Hitler. Bin Laden and Pol Pot. Idi Amin. Not to mention serial killers such as Ian Brady, Ted Bundy, The Countess Bathory and many, many more.

If I had just one wish it would be that those people would be able to feel the fear they inflicted on their victims. A magic drug whereby they could walk in the shoes of those that suffered at their hands. But they never will feel that fear and the world will never learn. There will be another Mladic. Somewhere. Someday.

And while I am feeling so sad. I'd like to point out something fleet street fox said in her blog the other day. While we have been preoccupied with celebrity news. The super-injuction saga and now Cheryl Cole getting kicked off the X-Factor. Fleet street fox points out that buried in the back of the newspaper this week was the news that 1,000 women, girls and boys have been raped in Misrata, Libya on orders of the officers of Gaddaffi's regime.

Sorry to be so maudlin but just for a moment, I think we should all spare a thought - and a prayer - for the victims of these evil beasts.

Maria Shriver join the club...

She's not the first and she certainly won't be the last and right now having a massively healthy bank balance will be of little comfort, but we all can sympathise with Maria Shriver.

Finding out your husband (or wife) is a Grade-A love rat is devastating no matter who you are. It must be a million times worse when it is done on the public stage.

I don't know Maria Shriver. I don't know Arnold Schwarzenegger. But he certainly appears to be a man who thinks monogamy is a type of wood. And twenty-five-years is a long time to be married to someone and then find out he's fathered a child by a long-standing member of your household staff.

Accordingly to a British newspaper, Maria confronted the 'member of staff' in question and asked if her child had been fathered by Arnie and then confronted Arnie. I would have liked to have been a fly on those walls!

I've read all the press. Seen the photographs. I've heard that Maria and the 'other woman' gave birth within days of each other. That Arnie poured money on his mistress, presumably to keep her happily schtum. The picture of the house (double garage, swimming pool) that he bought her, which is considered 'modest' Maybe by American standards it is but by our standards, here in Britain, it's pretty palatial! And I've seen photos of the 'other woman'and compared to elegant Ms Shriver she looks well...not pretty. Although maybe ten years ago she may have been a HPOA (I have to admit I had to look that acronym up!)

But then Arnie is no oil painting is he? His chiselled face has always reminded me of a Thunderbird puppet.

And Maria looked a quite scary when she did those tourist adverts for California. The ones that tried to entice us Brits to visit California.

Come to California.

'Er...no.'

So we don't know anything about these people, only what the media tell us. No doubt if he was in Britain we wouldn't know anything at all because he would have slammed a super-injunction on the press (bet he wishes he lived here!) What we do know is that a marriage that I have always thought amazing because it has lasted so long - is now over and there are clearly some very hurt people, including children.

Maria is largely credited for helping Arnie to election as the Governor of California in 2003. She said 'I wouldn't be standing here if this man wasn't an A-plus human being...' she mentioned words like 'extraordinary. Honest. Sensitive. Sincere.' I bet she is eating those words now or did she not mean them and was just helping him get elected? Who knows?

Arnie probably needed Maria a lot more than she needed him. She's a member of America's royal family - The Kennedy's, had a successful media career and authored of several books. A respected journalist who gave up her duties at NBC news in 2004 because her job conflicted with her status as First lady of California. She has amongst other remarkable achievements, had been a life long advocate for people with intellectual disabilities and has earned herself two Emmy's for works she had produced.

And now she has joined the club of women (and men) who have been humiliated by their spouses, only in Ms Shriver's case - publicly. I hear she has retained celebrity divorce lawyer, Laura Wasser and that Arnie has put his movie career on hold. Well, if I was you Arnie, I'd get my butt back to work because I hear this divorce might cost you between $200-400 million.

Will that money make Maria feel better? Maybe not. She, like millions of us who have been cheated on, will still feel sickened. Even if she no longer loves him or hasn't been happy with him for years, she will feel hurt and denigrated. Even if she knew full well his vociferous sexual appetite had been well-documented and has maybe turned a blind eye on the odd occasion. Even if she did all these things, she will still be absolutely gutted that he fathered a child and kept it secret for years.

And if she STILL loves him, her heart will feel as if he has cut it out of her chest with a rusty bread knife, thrown it on the floor and stamped on it.

Irrespective of whatever Ms Shriver might be like in real life she has been disrespected by her husband and treated as if she is of no consquence.

I have been there and I clearly remember how demeaning it was and how my self-confidence was shattered. I used to lay in bed at night planning my revenge on the man that had up sticks and moved in with a woman younger than his socks. I mentally pictured writing the word RAT in petrol on the lawn of the house and setting it alight so it was branded into the grass for all his neighbours to see. I wanted to fill a bag full of dog dirt and put it behind one of the radiators in his house. Cut up all his clothes and post dead fish through his letterbox (I clearly have a revengful side)

But I didn't do any of those thing.

What I did do was lose weight, buy myself the best suit I could afford and a pair of killer heels, get my hair and make up done and walk into the divorce court with my head held high. And then I got on with my life. Which as it happened meant that I eventually met a fantastic man who has been by soul-mate for the past twenty-one years and a brilliant step-dad to my kids. And I suspect Ms Shriver will do the same.

P.S.

What goes around. Comes around. My ex-husband is now on his third marriage.

Botox for kids?

Eight-year-old Britney Campbell says she checks every night for wrinkles and when she sees some she wants more botox injections.

Yes, this is the story of the little girl from San Francisco whose mother has been regularly injecting her with botox. In an interview with a U.K newspaper Britney says she also wants a breast and nose job soon so she can "be a star"

Can someone please tell me what wrinkles an eight-year-old has??? Britney's mother, and I used that term loosely, is clearly as mad as a hatter if she thinks her daughter has lines on her face.

Or is she? Is this a game to get famous?

Could it be that Britneys mother, Kerry Campbell, has staged this whole thing to get fame for herself? We hear she is a reality-programme-obsessed woman who apparently wants to be famous herself. She allegedly said she was injecting her daughter for beauty pageants, but authorities can find no evidence that Britney has ever been in one. And it appears Ms Campbell also has several alias's - so the plot thickens, as they say.

Or is this another parent trying to live through their child?

But either way if she has been injecting her daughter with botox, the message that is being sent to this young girl by her stupid mother is 'you are not good enough'

The only way a child should receive botox is on medical grounds to put right a squint or facial problem. Never for cosmetic reasons.

If you're an adult and you want to inject yourself with a toxin from a bacteria that is so dangerous it could actually kill you then that's up to you. Personally I would rather have a face like a Rhino's backside than have someone stick toxin-laden pins in my skin. And don't go telling me I'd feel different if I was older. I Am older.

But if, as alleged, this woman has given botox to her daughter she should be thrown in the stocks and pelted with rotten tomatoes! What a terrible thing to do to the lovely firm skin of a pretty little girl. This child is going to grow up thinking she is imperfect and has to have all these awful treatments to make herself pretty.

Little girls are growing up way too fast as it is. What has happened to childhood? When I was not much older than Britney I was playing in the field behind my house with my best friend, Shirley Goddard. We'd drag a whole bunch of dolls and pots and pans and goodness know what and set up in the farmers field and pretend we were next door neighbours. I can't remember caring two hoots what I wore or how my face looked. I was way too busy having fun.

Now we've got kids under ten wanting boob jobs so they can be a celebrity when they grow up or worse - marry a zillionaire footballer. And there is all the controversy over stores going out of their way to sexualize clothing for little girls. What are we doing to our kids?

It's crazy. Those precious few years of childhood, when you shouldn't have a care in the world, are being snatched away by stupid parents like Kerry Campbell who are already planning for their daughters to be celebrities.

There is a columnist who is suggesting it is probably wrong to take Britney away from her mum just because her mum's stupid. He says if we start doing things like that we might as well take peoples kids away because they drink sugar-laced soda drinks. Are you mad? there is a hell of a lot of difference between giving your kid a can of Coke and telling her we've got to prick her face with needles because she isn't pretty enough.

I'm getting a super injunction!

Oh my word! Super injunctions are hot news and I'm lovin' the person who is spilling the beans big time on twitter. But Jeremy Clarkson and Jemima Khan? No, that can't possibly be true. In Clarkson's dreams, maybe.

I plan to take out a super injunction next August. A gagging order on 'football' in my house. No one will be able to discuss it, watch it on television or even mention the word. I might even take out a few more. No one will be allowed to talk about or report to others on my cooking, driving skills or weight.

Unless you've been living on Pluto, you will all know that a super injunction is a gagging order in which the press is prohibited from reporting even the existence of an injunction.

It's a way the rich and famous can gag anyone from blabbing about their salacious affairs by preventing the media from reporting on them.

They say it's because they want to protect their privacy. Huh. Who are they kidding?

They don't give two hoots about their privacy when it makes them look good or earns them a few squillion. I don't see many of them slamming a super injunction on the press for reporting on them when they are caught shopping in Bond street or baring their bronzed chests on the beaches of Dubai.

No. Let's be real. All they care about is their image.

Thing is. Most of us don't give a flying fig about their image. And the rich and famous flatter themselves if they think we do. Our opinion of most of them won't be affected if we find out they are carrying on with someone other than their wife/husband/partner because most of us think they are talentless big-heads with egos the size of the Grand Canyon, anyway.

Personally, as far as footballers are concerned, finding out one of them is having a torrid affair will not change how I personally view them. They will always remain, in my opinion, over paid, egotistical wusses who drop to the floor and writhe in agony if so much as a feather brushes past them.

And they are ALL at. Andrew Marr, who has a face only a mother could love, took out a super injunction against The Independent newspaper for reporting on an extra-marital affair with a female journalist.

Here's a thought. If you don't want the press to report about your little affairs. Then DON'T have them. Do something different - be faithfull.

What kind of world do we live in when a person can go to jail for uttering the name of a super-injunction-protected-celebrity, yet a reckless driver who kills someone doesn't?

What would happen if an entire football stadium of people started chanting the celebrity's name? Would they all get arrested?

But seriously for a minute. Super injunctions have a far more sinister side to them. Sometimes the press are prevented from reporting on things that really matter. In 2009 the oil trader Trafigura prohibited the reporting of an internal report into the 2006 Cote D'Ivoire toxic waste dump scandal and that's something the public SHOULD have been told about.

Injunctions were not invented for celebrities by lawyers and judges. They were created by the Attorney General on behalf of the government to protect notorious criminals such as Mary Bell and the killers of James Bulger, whose crimes were so terrible that, if they were released, their safety could be in peril.

I understand an injuction when it's say for example, to prevent the press from reporting that Prince Harry is serving in Afghanistan. But to protect the image of a celebrity by supressing news of their sexual peccadillos, well that is just ridiculous.

But, whether you agree with them or not it seems that right now super injunctions are being handed out like confetti. Even as I write this today, two more celebrities have taken out super injunctions to prevent their behaviour becoming public knowledge. If I feel sorry for any celeb, it's the perfectly innocent celebrities who are being dragged into the scandals as people speculate the indentities.

It's now getting so ridiculous it's a joke.

Celebs/judges/football players/managers/politicians - listen! Save the thousands it costs you to slam a super injuction on the press because, quite honestly, WE JUST DON'T CARE - OKAY?

It's only rock and roll...

I - unashameably - love rock music. Everything from Avenged Sevenfold and 30 Seconds to Mars to Led Zeppelin. I also like country music. I've seen Martina McBride twice and think Sugarland are brilliant. I have even got Billy Ray Cyrus's autograph and know the line dancing moves to Achy Breaky Heart. (Okay, maybe I shouldn't be proud of that last bit.)

But rock music is my first love and I get incredibly annoyed when people say that, at my age, I am too old to like it and waaay toooo geriatic to go to any gigs!

When one of my friends turned forty she was told by her mother that she had to stop listening to that silly top forty rubbish and listen to classical - as was befitting her age.

Dear me. Are we supposed to reach a cross roads in life where our musical tastes are cauterized and we're reprogrammed to listen and, worse still like, Daniel O'Donnell?

I once sat next to an old aged pensioner, with a grey-haired perm and a long-suffering husband, at a Squeeze concert and she was having a ball. Her husband told me she loved New Wave music and dragged him to all the gigs. I watched her singing along - she knew all the words - and thought I want to be like that when I'm old. I wanted to go to gigs with my kids and keep up with new music and I'm proud to say that I do.

I never wanted to get stuck in an era of music. Some people do that. I know, I'm married to one. My other half is still firmly in the 70s. 'The best music was in the 70s' he says proudly (yeah, like 'Agadoo')

I know someone else who got to the 80s and stopped dead in their musical tracks and from then on didn't want to listen to anything else. And that's fine - if it's what you like.

But some of us have gone merrily through life adapting to musical changes quite happily, adding new bands and songs to the ones we already love. I'm not very keen on rap or crap with a missing C as one of my customers insists on calling it! But I get it.

I just get really angry when I'm told that I should 'grow-up' and stop listening to bands that kids are listening to. Why not???

I have dragged my son to concerts where he has turned to me and said. 'I bet everyone in here thinks I've brought you when really it's you who's brought me.'

Of course, I have also been known to be the kiss of death to some bands. There was a time when one of my other sons was listening to a band and I said I liked them. He recoiled in horror, looked at the CD as if it was covered in anthrax and never listened to it again. There was no way he was going to listen to the same stuff as his mother!!!

I suppose I understand that. If my mother had said she liked the Beatles I would definitely have thought twice about having that picture of Paul McCartney on my bedroom wall.

But I'm not my mother. I like to think I've got my finger on the pulse. My favourite music channel is SCUZZ. I've got a 30 Seconds to Mars T-shirt and an MCR button-badge.

Music is so important, whatever it is. An old lady told me she remembered the day when people were always singing and there isn't nearly enough music around us today. And I agree.

We were cleaning at an old people's home last week and could hear an elderly man singing hymns in his bedroom and boy, was he singing with gusto. He was thoroughly enjoying himself. Everyone should definitely sing more. And listen to more music, too. Whatever you like, whatever age you are. Explore music. The site 'Spotify' has opened up a whole world of different genres of music to discover.

And if anyone says 'hey, aren't you a bit old for that stuff' just tell them this:

Real Men Don't Diet

I started a diet - again. I'm always on a diet. I usually start on Monday and then Monday doesn't go so well. Maybe work goes badly or my tyre gets a puncture. By afternoon it has turned out to be a bad day to start a diet, I'm not in the right frame of mind. I have now justified my reason for reaching for the biscuit barrel. I tell myself it's okay, I'll start again tomorrow. But then Tuesday comes and well, it's not the beginning of the week anymore, is it? Who starts a diet on a Tuesday? So then I tell myself it's best to start afresh the following Monday. Oh, then that means I now have 6 days in which to eat as much as possible before the BIG DIET starts. My last fling with the food I will be denied. I embark on eating my own body weight in biscuits and chocolate. And then Monday finally comes and I start my diet with great enthusiasm because this is IT! This is the start of me becoming a new super slim person. Oh, but what happens next? Monday turns out to be a really bad day again so I abandon the diet and the cycle starts all over.
And now I officially hate myself!

Men don't diet. Most of them never seem to need to, which is so annoying. And those that do need to, well they just - don't. They don't care if their belly enters a room two minutes before they do. In fact, they will probably boast to their mates how many lagers it took to grow it. How many women would take off their tops at a football match and delight in showing the world their pasty-white, fat bellies? How many men have you seen do it? They just don't care. The T.V camera is on them. It's the middle of winter and they are standing in the terraces, topless.

No. Men don't do the D-word. That's why soft drink companies call diet sodas names like Coke Zero and Pepsi One because they know men don't like the D-word.

And when they do decide to lose weight they call it getting into 'shape' because dudes don't diet.

But us women, oh we love the D-word. The average woman spend 31 years of her life on a diet. Yes, 31 years!!! All that time trying, mostly in vain, to have a super lithe body. Wishing we had perfect 'celebrity' figures. What a waste of 31 years?

I'm not knocking skinny celebrities. I understand why they think they need to be so thin. But I didn't realise that until I was in New York a few years ago when I saw the country singer, Martina McBride, record an outside concert for the CBS morning show.

Martina was super thin. We couldn't get over just how thin she was. Behind her she had a backing singer who had a lovely figure. A figure to die for. Curves in the right places and not fat - not at all. The next morning we watched the CBS early morning show. Martina looked absolutely perfect. But the backing singer? Well she looked - fat. Seems the camera does lie after all.

We are drilled to think we must be slim. We see airbrushed images of celebrities and are conned into thinking in order to have a perfect life we need to be a size zero. But it wasn't always this way. Look at Marilyn Monroe. Surely one of the most beautiful people - ever.

Today, Marilyn Monroe would make the 'fat celebrity' list.

But there are a few celebs not bowing to pressure and long may they stick it out. Altho I can't see them not caving in at some point. Adele is a normal size 14-16 and says she hasn't time to think about dieting.

Isn't she pretty?

So, you know what? I've now decided not to diet anymore. Come on girls, join me. Let's be like the boys. Life is too short to be living on lettuce leaves and carrot sticks. The important thing is to be healthy. Eat the right food and taked care of your body, If that means you are naturally going to be a size 14, 16, 18 whatever, then so be it. That's who you are.

And if you are reading this, please, please leave a comment about how you feel. And follow me. Or if you have a blog, tell me what it is so I can follow you.

Chester Zoo-licious

The life of a writer is a solitary one. Just you, your keyboard or pen and your imagination. Sometimes that imagination needs a little stimulation. I often feel as if my brain is like a filter coffee machine. It fills up with ideas and then drips, drips, drips into the carafe (a.k.a computer keyboard) below until it's empty and then it has to be filled up all over again. And sometimes, to fill it up, I need to get out and about - anywhere. That's why when I get to visit somewhere like New York, I can write and write until my fingers feel like they are falling off because I've seen and heard so much and my mind is brimming with ideas.

So when I said I needed a day out my son, Stefan, said 'let's go to Chester Zoo!'

Okay, the zoo sounds good - why not?

Chester Zoo is a truly amazing place. One of the best zoos in Britain. With over 7,000 animals - more than 400 species of rare, exotic, endangered animals and a major player in conservation programmes.

Just milling about, listening to snippets of conversation and, of course seeing the animals, set my mind working straight away.

We found ourselves entangled in a group of young, school children on a field trip and got swept along with them. Stefan said he didn't mind because he could see over their heads to take photos!

I kept my ears trained. Kids are always a source of inspiration. They didn't let me down.

Child: 'Miss Evans. I want to be an ostrich.'

Child: 'Miss. I've dropped my camera in the bat cave.'

Child (screaming with excitement): 'Look. Look. I can see the spectacular Bear.'
Teacher: It's Spectacled bear, Simon. Not spectacular.'

* * *

April is clearly a good month to visit the zoo. Lots of baby animals.

Cutest thing ever is a baby Porcupine.

The 'spectacular' bear!

Gotta love Meerkats!

Walking through the butterfly house was like being in a Disney movie. Stunningly beautiful butterflies everywhere. They literally seem to float past your eyes. There is a mirror at the exit to check that a butterfly hasn't landed on you and you about to take it outside.

Ron and Stefan.

Stefan's favourite animals - Okapi. It kind looks like a cross between a zebra and a giraffe.

It was a truly lovely day out. Weather fab. Zoo fab. Lots of snippets of conversation and characters to get my creative juices flowing. And if you want to see anymore of my 'zoo' photos they will be on facebook. Please leave me a comment if you read this blog. I love to hear from you, whoever you are, wherever you are. And if you have your own blog. Tell me so I can look you up.

The Case of the Missing Toilet Rolls

Image via Wikipedia

For the love of God will some one please explain to me why people steal toilet rolls.

I clean a place (I won't say where it is, but the general public go there) and several times a week the toilet rolls are stolen.

Yeah, I get that if you're unemployed, perhaps loo rolls are the last thing on your 'to buy' list. Even though Asda budget toilet rolls are only 13p a roll. But hey, wouldn't want to cut into your tobacco money, would we now?

And yes, you might be a student who is living away from home for the first time and has just discovered that toilet roll doesn't automatically replenish itself, like you thought.

There again, maybe you are like that celebrity on Big Brother who admitted she did it just for a laugh. Perhaps stuffing a loo roll in your handbag or inside your jacket does it for you.

There is even a facebook page entitled: 'I steal toilet rolls because I begrudge paying to wipe my ass.'

And sad though it is, I'm not surprised to find that stealing toilet rolls is #140 on the list of stuff unemployed people like. A site where one person bragged that they stole four rolls in one go!

Don't these people know you can go to jail for stealing? A girl in Iowa got three years for stealing toilet rolls. Do you know what her name was? Suzanne Butt. I kid you not.

This so annoys me that I'm on a one-woman crusade to find ways of combatting the problem. I have two quite brilliant ideas - what do you think?

Toilet rolls could be tagged. When the thief leaves the building the toilet roll screams like a banshee: "toilet roll thief about to leave the building! Toilet roll thief about to leave the building!"

Toilet roll holders could have a magnetic plate (spare rolls to sit on a magnetic plate) and all toilet rolls would contain a tiny dye pack with a radio receiver. This is activated when the toilet roll leaves the magnetic plate. After about ten seconds the dye pack explodes releasing an aerosol of red smoke or tear gas thus compelling the thief to chuck the stolen roll. Okay, the down side is we'd still lose the toilet roll but I'd lay money on it being the last toilet roll that person would ever steal!

Or we could just employ a woman called Ingrid, with the body of a shot putter and a penchant for bodliy contact, to frisk everyone as they left the building. Although it worries me that some would-be toilet thieves might actually enjoy that.

Jeez. Y'know, it's not just toilet rolls, either. Since I've worked in this place, we've had the hot and cold sign on the taps stolen and someone even unscrewed the plug for the hand dryer and nicked the fuse. I mean, who carries around a screw driver?

Well, I have to look on the bright side. At least it gives me something to write about!