Defintely nothing rude. At all.

I can fit the whole of my fist into my mouth.

I didn't claim it was attractive.

That's all.

PS. I had to try very hard not to call this post "Fisting".

A Mystery Guest

You can call me Caroline.
In response to my whinnying on about not being able to blog whatever I want, the lovely Miss Tickle offered me a safe blog to come blurt in.

This is to be my happy place for the day.
It is a place where stalking former boyfriends can not find me.
Even though they are clearly dedicating their lives to the task.
It is a place where I can say bollocks and shit without receiving a reprimanding email from anyone.
I am 33 years old for fuck’s sake.
And I don’t feel like I’m being watched.
Because I’m just here for the respite.

I don’t have to perform.
I feel calm.
This is a much nicer place to be.
The air is fresher.
Thank you for your hospitality Miss Tickle.

I’m going to sit here a while.
Read a book. Bask in the sunshine.
And eat a whole packet of ginger snaps, because I’m in someone else’s blog and so calories don’t count.

Any questions?

More money than sense.

In his job, hub has to go to rich people's houses. He fits swanky furniture that he has created with his bare hands. Like the clever thing he is.

He often returns from these houses a bit angry.

(That is putting rather a positive light on it.)

Because these rich people are, well, rich. And rich people seem to be depserate to spend their money.

All over the place.

Including the toilet.

Exhibit Number One:



















PS. I have not had a single biscuit.

And Life Goes On.

Yes it does. And depsite my considering more seriously than ever the plan in which I move to Cornwall and keep chickens and bake cakes while hub creates wonderful furniture from driftwood, I find myself still in London and still alive and still, against all odds, planning to do the plays later in the year.

Although I am still £1500 worse off than I was on Sunday. Grr.

While our lawyer friend is checking the contract to see if the money really is legally keepable, the theatre have offered us a half-way house type deal where we get to do a week's "development" on the shows. This means working on them for a week and showing them to an audience to get (shudder) feedback.

I am not sure that this would be A Good Thing since the plays do not need developing, they are ace! But on the other hand, what would effectively be a week long advert for them might be at least vaguely useful. And it would mean the money wasn't entirely in vain.

*sigh*

I will be speaking to the theatre again today.

In other news, I am considering whether to give up biscuits for Lent.

And if a double decker bus...

squashed me flat I can't say that I'd be too bothered considering the way my luck has been going lately.

First. It was Damien Rice. Again dearest lovelies, the power of blogging. Amazing.

But this was not enough to send me skipping along the streets of London humming in a sort of an Irish way to myself (I am a bit Irish you know, a quarter or something. Descended from Murphys. Also, while we're on the subject, I am a bit French and a bit Scottish. In fact, I am one of the descendants of William Wallace. This gives me a very tenuous link to Mel Gibson, which used to be an Interesting and Good Thing, and is now a Resoundingly Bad one).

Anyway.

No singing.

And here is why.

I spoke to the theatre at which we were (sob) going to be doing the plays. They told me they are going to keep the deposit. (Wretch. And yes it does call for actual vomiting.) That is £1,500 dearest lovelies.

It never rains but it pours.

And when my eyes were pouring and I was leaning on a railing to hold myself up while my lovely hub was doing his very best phone-counselling, bloody Mark Kermode walked past and gave me a funny look.

It has been A Hell Of A Day.

And it is only 16.19. Or so.

The End (Or A New Beginning)

We did not make the money.

Grrr.

This is Rubbish.

Grrr.

So the lovely plays won't be going ahead.

In March.

But they might be going ahead another time.

We met A Lady who said she would be interested in Helping (please read Investing) but she is too busy at the moment. But she might not be too busy later in the year.

So it is not all Doom and Gloom.

Hoorah. A bit.

So to all you lovelies who bought your very own word, thank you! It has not been in vain and you are ace.

PS. Someone called "Damien Rice" bought "quietly" for ten squids. This was an exciting moment.
PPS. If you know your friend-who-lives-round-the-corner is called Damien Rice, please do not shatter my illusions by telling me. Thank you.

A CAMPAIGN

Like they do in politics and stuff.

So I've got to raise ten thousand pounds to do two LOVELY plays. (In saying this I am giving out a Crucial Clue about my chosen career. It is true, boys and girls, I am a Theatre Director!)

Blimey.

I have invented a Clever Thing.


Would you like to buy a word? They are only a pound and you can choose whichever one you want.

You will be the envy of your friends!

"I own a word!" you will be able to shout all over the place.

"I have contributed to The Arts!" you will be able to say a bit more quietly.

"For a simple pound" you will be able to whisper to yourself as you drift off to sleep at night, sighing gently with contentment.

*sigh*

All you need to do is a very little click.

Here.

(Then tell anyone you have ever met)