Pearly Jones

Midsomer has been Murdered

2011-03-23T15:22:00.000-07:00

Nothing has inspired me to come out of retirement faster than John Nettles managed to retreat into his, than the first in the new series of Midsomer Murders.

The painful and very public execution of tonight's premiere, starring one of its ex-villains in the starring role of Barnaby ll The Revenge, has killed off any hopes I had that the new series might stagger on regardless without Bergerac at the helm.

A brief but tantalising view of one token timbered cottage was thrown in, every so often, to soften the architectural blow. But council flats and high rise tenements dominated this new and sorry tale.

I fear the lids of chocolate boxes in Middle England will never be the same again. Without the cottages, what godforsaken images will our jigsaw puzzles be emblazoned with?

Even more disappointing, the weak but oh so demure and innocent looking, (and therefore obviously the killer) Joyce Barnaby is now missing, presumed sacked...

She, who always managed to be in the right place at the wrong time... And who, with acting skills more wooden than some of the pale stiffs who turned up with frightening regularity around her, got away with murdering the script every week, simply because she was married to the top plod.

But worse is to come.

Not content with tonight's finale where the elderly villain strings Barnaby ll up in the barn, near the library, with the rope, above some sort of unused "yet still sharp enough to cause slight bruising" farm implement (an act which he would never have achieved, nor attempted with Barnaby l) the producers have seen fit to commit a dire and heinous crime of their own.

They've stolen super acting mutt Harvey, from Thinkbox's advertising campaign, casting him in the role of Barnaby ll's Thinking Brain Dog.

Given the recent change in headliners, I wouldn't be at all surprised if by Episode Three, Harvey had himself, seen through Barnaby ll and spotted that he was, in fact, the baddy in Series Two, Episode Five and in Series Six, Episode Two, and had him bumped off, in order to take the role of Top Dog himself.

And not a moment too soon, in my opinion.

Spring Cleaning

2010-03-23T05:39:00.000-07:00

If you are like me, the expression "Spring Cleaning" will strike fear into your very soul and have you scrabbling for a place to hide until the Mr Sheen fragranced madness is over.

It is traditionally the time where you turn your mattresses, clear out cupboards and polish things that are no longer shiny, such as Mr P Jones' slightly threadbare cranium, until they gleam like a new pin.

It's also a time which annually reveals crusty, hardened items that usually turn out to be rogue undergarments, belonging to himself, which have slunk unbidden from the wash basket and secreted themselves in dark recesses to fester damply, over Winter.

And for that reason alone, I have decided enough is enough.

No longer will I don industrial rubber gloves, clamber into fisherman's waders and jump into the fray, with grim determination, a will of steel and a stout broom handle designed to ward off surprise attack.

For I have discovered a brand new cleaning system which can sniff out even the feistiest of socks and wrestle them into submission. A system that will take on the evil that lurks in corners, loosely disguised as Mr P Jones used pants.

I am exploring the possibility of door to door sales, to spread the word. The Evangelist of Cleaning.

But before I do, I am offering you a trial of this wonder dust buster. Just a "taster" of what is on offer to the discerning housewife.

In fact, why not start right now? Have your PC cleaned in seconds, while you are still here reading this?

Just click here to experience for yourself the system which will revolutionise Spring Cleaning for good.

The Great Camberley Mosque Planning Pickle

2010-01-28T11:31:00.000-08:00

Anyone who is acquainted with me will know how much I love old things. Why, you only have to cast an eye over Mr P Jones to see just how true this is.

Ok, so he may need a little repointing here and there, but to be honest, I've suffered from a wee bit of subsidence over the years too, and until we are condemned or demolished, we'll carry on happily propping each other up, like a couple of slightly damp roofing joists.

Albeit with a little woodworm and flake of dry rot, for company.

And all this is going on, under the sometimes leaky, slightly bowing, clay roof of the small, locally listed residence we call home, in the Victorian town of Camberley.

Locally listed, because at some point in the past, a nice man from the council decided that our little house had historical merit or architectural interest to the neighbourhood, not least because of the two dusty old relics which are knocking around inside it.

But the general consensus of opinion in Knoll Towers, headquarters of the great and good at Surrey Heath Borough Council, is that until such time as they change their minds and remove it from said list, or get paid a substantial amount of money in a creased brown envelope, it would be a terrible grand shame to pull it down.

So it's a great pity that the same folk saw fit to approve the demolition of St Gregory's School, the attractive red brick locally listed building, sitting in the RMA conservation area, on the A30, in Yorktown.

You see, at a highly important meeting on Monday 25 January, a bevy of our esteemed councillors (and I really have to ensure I spell that correctly, as I have always been brought up to be polite), voted against the advice given to them by their more experienced colleagues in the planning department, and said it's fine to squash the school as flat as a pancake.

And their decision, however flawed, was final.

Until Tuesday morning.

When they sent a letter to everyone, from their Mum, saying they had to be excused from PE until further notice as they had developed a nasty little rash, and that by the way, when they said "no", they really meant "possibly", or "in principle" or "maybe".

As you can probably imagine, Mr P Jones and I have been all agog at these goings on. You see for a long time now, we have been planning our retirement.

And one of the many options we had come up with, was that we could raze this place to the ground and build a life-size replica of 30 St Mary Axe (better known as the Gherkin in London's docklands), out of used Chinese takeaway containers, on the site.

And then charge folk for a look round. Like they do in America.

Where nothing is older than the last time you sneezed.

And where people will pay good money to see the World's Biggest Ball of String.

As you know, us old folk are nothing but thrifty, and those little rectangular plastic boxes with the snap-off, snap-on lids, will always come in handy. Which, to be honest, is why we have amassed several thousand of them.

Well, we do like the odd battered sweet and sour chicken ball.

And now storage is getting a bit tight.

It was only after a couple of medicinal dry sherries one night, that Mr P Jones stumbled upon the idea of building some sort of money spinning tourist attraction, to see us into our twilight years. But up until now, we had nowhere to put it.

Up until now the locally listed status of our property had deemed this a non-starter.

But as the councillors at Surrey Heath have apparently taken leave of their senses completely, and are allowing previously protected property to be torn down on the whim of a few, it leaves us free to dismantle our listed house too.

London stock brick by London stock brick.

To build ourselves a future. Out of microwaveable food containers.

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you.... The Giant Pickle.

Which coincidentally, by all accounts, is also what the councillors of Surrey Heath's latest planning applications committee have got themselves into.

(Admission price negotiable in back-handers. The management refuse the right of entry or appeal)
_________________________________________________

BEDTIME READING

Matthelliwell.blogspot.com: Camberley Mosque

Especially interesting is the comment from Anonymous on Matt's blog: "I'm curious to know why Alan Cleverly, the agent for Surrey Heath MP Michael Gove, was at the planning meeting, sitting with the applicants, grinning with delight at the outcome and shaking hands with fellow enthusiasts for this ill-conceived plan!"

Me too Anon, me too!!! Maybe our totally impartial local MP Michael who is supposedly paid to work for the good of the whole community, or his little sidekick Alan would like to elaborate here?

I can feel another sick note coming on, to get 'em out of next week's PE, oops sorry, PR....

BBC Surrey: Surrey Heath says Camberley mosque not yet decided

Get Surrey: New mosque approval 'not yet finalised'

The Annual Christmas Round Robin Letter!

2009-12-14T13:12:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends and Family,

Well, it's that time again, and here at Pearly Jones Towers, we are reaching the end of another hectic year. Phew!

It's certainly been a mixed bag in 2009, although we seem to have come through it pretty unscathed!

Having combatted the virulent flatulence we told you about in our last Christmas Round Robin, Mr PJones discovered he had gone down with a quite spectacular case of hemorrhoids early in March, just in time for his birthday.

Having quietly battled on for some time with piles the size of golfballs, and with only the aid of a small inflatable rubber cushion for comfort, he decided to "go public" with them.

And so off we went to see Dr Harvey, who has thankfully recovered from that unfortunate business last summer, and has been given the go-ahead to continue in practice with just a warning from the General Medical Council.

Between ourselves, we do rather suspect his accompanying alcohol problem is not yet completely under control, but he is back at the helm, with his caring, if slightly shaky hands.

The good Doctor was most impressed and said Mr PJones' lower protrusions were some of the finest he'd ever seen, and he's apparently seen a fair few in his time, which immediately put Mr PJones at ease.

In fact, he became rather wistful on the subject, saying they reminded him of the sun ripened vines in his local vineyard in Beaune, near Burgundy in France, where he has a small Gite.

He assured us that they make the most superb red wine there and has promised a bottle or two when he returns from his next visit.

Well, as you can imagine, Mr PJones was practically walking on air (after sitting on it for weeks) having been buoyed up by all this unexpected attention to his problem "down below".

We left the surgery in a much better frame of mind, armed with a large tube of Anusol and some latex gloves, which I have found invaluable, when rubbing in Mr PJones' cream every night, with a new found vigour!

Of course, some of you may remember my own little medical emergency back in June, when I accidentally gave an elderly Greek gentleman a heart attack during my triennial cervical smear test.

Well, I'm pleased to tell you that dear Mr Phillipoussis has made a full recovery and although he feels he can't yet return to his flat, as he is still mentally too fragile, he is making good progress in the nursing home.

The downside of the whole tragic affair is that apparently he can't bear to eat scrambled eggs now, which the home says can make breakfast tricky as the other residents tend to kick up a terrible fuss when they see he has been given a preferential poached egg.

I believe the staff are trying an experimental technique to wean him back onto scrambled via coddled, by tapping into his subconscious using pictorial flash cards with his cocoa at bedtime.

I'm sure you all join us in wishing him a speedy return to full health.

Oh yes, and before I forget, if any of you are given unwanted Christmas gifts again this year, I'm happy to announce that I will be doing my usual "Taking Christmas to the Homeless" run, day after Boxing Day.

Last year my heart was touched deeply when one of my destitute friends who live outside our local Waitrose, was overcome with gratitude for his gift.

Having offered him a polka dot Cafetiere and Expresso Cup set, which was sadly surplus to requirements in the PearlyJones household, I was absolutely delighted to be told, with gusto, that "This was all he fucking well needed!" Bless him (even if his language was a little fruity for that time of the morning!)

Now I know what some of you may think about the homeless, but it was just lovely to be met with such an unselfish attitude, from someone who genuinely has so little. Apart from a large piece of damp cardboard and a rather phlegmmy cough.

But it did mean that I could take the unwanted box of notelets printed with six different seasonal pictures of Basingstoke, around to Mrs Undercracker (I'm not convinced that's her real name but Alvin says that's what all the children at school call her).

Some of you will recollect seeing her hovering on the periphery of our Summer Musical Soirees in the Park. She was the lovely old lady with the flowing silvery beard and asymmetric wart, who liked to swig from the discarded champagne bottles she found in the bin.

Well, she was sadly evicted from the bandstand earlier this year, after being given some sort of long service community award called an asbo.

She's now living in a glorious little spot, on the iron bench next to the Gentlemen's lavatories, which she says is a step up, as she now has warm running water. Such a dear!

And yes, I am aware that she spits at the occasional passer-by but it's all in jest I'm sure. I'm utterly convinced she appreciated being able to write a little note or two to her friends and relatives after the seasons festivities had ended, whatever she shouted at me at the time.

With my sack of unwanted gifts tied to the handlbars of my bicycle, little bell jingling wildly for effect, pedalling past the poor, downtrodden and needy, I felt just like a little Christmas elf!

There is nothing like spreading some seasonal joy to get you into the Yuletide spirit!

And of course, if any of you want to join me on my rounds this year, give me a tinkle. Hopefully, you will get through, although we do seem to have developed a fault on our telephone line.

I have tried calling most of you in the last couple of weeks to see if you have your new addresses for me yet, since you all moved houses so suddenly. We haven't heard a peep out of any of you since August. Busy unpacking I expect.

Anyway, we can get a dialling tone, and hear the other end pick up but would you believe, no sooner than I say who it is, the line goes completely dead!

We'll report it to BT in the New Year, but for now, we haven't forgotten you! Rest assured we'll see you in 2010 for more fun and frolics, minus the piles I hope!

Well, must dash. It's time for Mr PJones' cream and you know what a stickler he is for time keeping.

Have a very Merry Christmas and we'll see you all in the New Year!

Toodle pip!

From all at Pearly Jones Towers.

_____________________________________________

FOR MORE ON THE HORROR THAT IS THE CHRISTMAS ROUND ROBIN, SEE BELOW:

Radio 4 - Womans Hour: Do you love them or loathe them?

Glad Tidings We Bring: By Simon Hoggart in The Guardian

Up, up and away!

2009-09-23T14:38:00.000-07:00

“Is this anyone’s first time” asks Doug cheerfully, as we assemble in the centre of the field.

I shoot my hand up and hop excitedly from foot to foot, nodding my head, while my new Nikon swings on its neck strap like a giant pendulum.

“You’ll love it” he assures me, as he helps the others into the basket. I grin back at him somewhat dementedly.

“I think love might be too strong a word, Douggie Baby” I think, but he seems so enthusiastic on my behalf, bless him, that I’m not going to tell him I’m so nervous I’ve already had five wee’s in the last half an hour.

Or that I need another one now, meaning the hopping is only partly down to the adrenalin.

He takes my hand and helps me clamber, cross legged, into the wicker container, which feels only slightly sturdier than the Fortnum’s hamper we got last Christmas.

I take my place in the giant cat basket (or gondola, as Doug apparently prefers to call it) and unhook my camera from around my neck. With its nice shiny, new long-distance lens, it’s beginning to feel quite heavy.

I shut my eyes tightly ready for blast off or whatever balloonists like to call it, as he pulls the handle to inflate the envelope to bursting point with hot air.

The feeling of floating gently away from the ground is odd but less frightening than I thought it would be, which is a blessing for my bladder.

I experience a great sense of weightlessness as we soar skywards.

“Did you see Stephen Fry in America, on TV?" someone asks. “He got to pick a leaf from the treetops when he was in a balloon!”

An admiring gasp goes round and Doug chuckles. “Well, if any of you guys want to…” he starts.

I need no second bidding. I jump up from the crouched position I had adopted in case of emergency on take-off, open my up-until-now tight shut eyes (well, one of them anyway) and grasping the basket edge, lean out as far as I dare.

I peruse the seasonal beauty of the red, orange and gold foliage laid out before me.

With fingertips outstretched and on my tippymost toes, I can ju-ssss-t rea-cchh one. There!

I haul myself back in beaming, my golden prize in hand. Everyone stares at me in amazement. I swear I hear a snigger from someone at the back.

“Er, I really meant once we had taken off” Doug says, with a smirk.

“What?” I’m astonished. Surely as the bloody pilot he should know when we are airborne. “Didn’t we just take off?” I peer over the side to prove to myself that I’m right.

And so am somewhat surprised to see I’m not. And that he does appear to have a point.

We are floating a few feet off the ground, above a low hawthorn hedge.

“Afraid not” he says, to another round of giggling from someone who is looking for a black eye.

“We are still tethered while I do my final checks.”

“But I’ll make sure you are first to have a go at pulling a leaf off a tree as soon as we are high enough and in position”.

“Don’t bother” I retort, a little petulantly it has to be said.

“I’m actually perfectly happy with the one I have already picked” I add, patting my pocket for added emphasis. The pocket where I have put my beautiful autumnal golden leaf (or discarded Twix wrapper as it later turns out to be) for safe keeping.

I settle back down in my corner, glare at the idiots I have been forced to share this experience with, and shut my eyes, resigned to my fate.

The handful of tranquillisers I’d taken after wee three and before wee four kicked in around now and I must have fallen asleep, because by the time I open them again we are well and truly flying.

High above the land, with only the occasional Victorian farmstead and meandering river breaking up the vista.

The golden ploughed fields look like silk below and I’m bewitched by the shadows from the clouds scudding across the rolling hills.

I grab my camera, remembering to remove the lens cap this time and start taking what will no doubt be Country File’s calendar shots of the year.

My fellow passengers are all crowded round Doug as he shows off the gizmos he uses to keep this thing in the air.

They are all quite obviously a bunch of total balloon geeks, as they are listening in rapture, hanging off his every word.

“Then there was the time we got caught in a strong cross wind and were being blown towards live power cables…” he’s saying. They gasp.

I laugh pityingly to myself and turn back to my uninterrupted view of the world.

The basket sways and jolts a little. Probably one of those oh-so-terrifying cross winds, the old gas bag is going on about.

I take the opportunity to lift my camera higher, unencumbered by the strap, or the backs of people’s heads.

The basket jolts again, and I steady myself with one hand.

Oops.

I glance round at the group but they are still mesmerised by our pilot.

For the second time today I peer over the side.

Only this time, it’s in the hope I will see my new camera, caught on the wicker, dangling by the nylon neck strap I should have been wearing.

I don’t see anything but air, and below me, a field of cows, grazing contentedly in the warm sun.

I nonchalantly edge towards the back of the group, pretending to be paying attention, whistling as I go. I even manage a little casual saunter, although this is more tricky to achieve given the dimensions of the woven capsule we are in.

“Tell me Doug, old boy” I begin jovially, “What would happen if something went over the side?”

“Nothing would” he replies, a bit too smugly I feel, under the circumstances.

“Everyone on board has been given the safety briefing and must keep their hands and personal belongings inside the basket at all times”.

“But say something, quite by accident you understand, just happened to fall over the edge?” I continue.

“Something, for sake of argument, I don’t know…. um, like a camera?” I point accusingly at the person who was cruising for a bruising earlier and who is clutching a pathetic little snappy snaps digital affair.

And something which being much smaller, older and far less impressive than mine, must also weigh considerably less too.

“Well, if that went over” he indicates with a nod of his head towards the camera and then the side of the gondola. Black Eyes Man shrinks visibly and clutches the ridiculously small silver box to his chest. I note he has threaded his wrist through its carrying strap.

‘It could kill someone!” Doug announces dramatically. The occupants of the giant wicker basket look shocked. “If it reached terminal velocity, it would be lights out for anyone it hit."

“But don’t worry, folks” he continues brightly. “It’s never happened to me yet. Everyone still got their cameras on them, haven’t they?”

“Oh yes, Doug” we chorus (some of us more truthfully than others).

We all take it in turns to look relieved, while some wave their cameras in the air to prove it.

I pat my camera bag, making comedy huffy puffy noises and wiggling my eyebrows, to suggest it is far too heavy to wave, now my camera and assorted lenses have been safely packed back into it.

“Great, now has everyone got all the shots they want?” he asks the assembled throng, who are all now giggling at the shared joke - I mean, can you imagine being stupid enough to drop your camera overboard?

The general consensus is that yes, thank you, we have, although I privately think I might have got one shot too many.

“Good job” he says. “I’ll start to take her down now, as it looks like it might rain soon”.

We gaze upwards at the clear blue, cloudless sky.

“That’s clever’, says the bloke who I’m still itching to slap a tiny bit. “How do you know that?”

“Well’ starts Doug, stretching and leaning back, enjoying this moment where he shows off his knowledge of the countryside. “It’s an old wives tale, but there’s some truth in it.”

“If you look down there, you’ll see one the cows in that field has just laid down. The rest will follow, you mark my words. And that’s a sure sign it’s going to rain.”

We all lean over the side to get a better view of the herd.

He’s right, one of the cows is lying down.

But with all four of its feet in the air.

And a throbbing, pink Nikon shaped lump on the top of its head…

_________________________________________________________

N.B. Pearly Jones would just like to state that no cows, real or imaginary, were harmed during the writing of this blog.

Cervix with a smile

2009-06-02T08:05:00.000-07:00

"I'm very distracted today", the nurse giggles as she snaps on her latex gloves. "My daughter is about to give birth to my second grandchild. She's been in hospital since early this morning".

I smile politely and make all the right sort of congratulatory noises that one does in these circumstances. "Ooh how lovely.... does she know what it is yet... you must be so proud, etc" She beams excitedly and drops the lid of the tube of lubricant she is brandishing, "Oops, I'm all fingers and thumbs today!"

Not exactly the news I want to hear at this precise moment while lying on the surgery couch, knees under my chin, dignity in tatters, awaiting my long overdue cervical smear test.

She ducks under the bed and rummages around until she retrieves the lid. "Just as well I found it, as it has that pointy bit on the end". I wince and try hard to think about the large glass of Sauvignon Blanc I'm due, for getting through this.

She adjusts her bendy lamp to illuminate parts of me that were never designed to be on show under a spotlight. The view doesn't seem to put her off, as she's in full flow now, telling me how far her daughter's cervix was dilated when they last spoke on the phone. (4 cms in case you were wondering).

"Now, just relax" she twitters, waving a large perspex implement in the direction of my nether regions. It looks as if it would be better placed under the counter in one of Soho's more "open minded" sales establishments, than in a doctors surgery but she appears to know what she's doing.

"Easy for you to say", I mutter under my breath, trying hard to distract myself by gazing out of the window into the upstairs flat opposite. I concentrate on the oversized, overstuffed beige sofa that dominates the sitting room and wonder at what passes for the occupant's idea of interior design.

Three large 70's prints of sailing ships hang from the wall above the sofa in a slightly skewed fashion, and a pink tassled lampshade which has seen better days, dangles dejectedly from the ceiling. A couple of dying pot plants in clumsy blue and white ceramic pots finish the look.

As I lie there, feet pointing skyward, thinking Laurence Llewellyn Bowen would have kittens if he saw the decor, it occurs to me I have a very good view of this room.

In fact, too good a view.....

Oh bloody hell, the distracted, over-excited grandma to be, has left the blinds open! It's too late now, she's brandishing the biggest cotton bud I've ever seen, still chattering about the imminent arrival, completely unaware of the growing panic happening up at the other end of the couch.

A sudden movement drags my eyes back to the window of the flat. An elderly gentleman has entered the room carrying a tray of scrambled eggs on toast and a cup of tea.

I know it is scrambled eggs on toast because I am practically in the room with him. He has a small pepper pot at the side of the plate with "A gift from Crete" written on it in italics.

He takes his time, sinking back into the sofa and adjusting his postition to make sure the tray is balanced on his lap. Once seated comfortably, he carefully cuts through his toast using a butter knife, before scooping up the first forkful, ready to enjoy his breakfast.

He raises his head, mouth open, ready for the first bite.

Our eyes meet, and his mouth opens a damn sight wider.... this time, in complete horror at the spectacle before him. His meal slides off the tray onto the floor, the toast landing buttery side down. Isn't that always the way?

I smile politely, and raise my eyebrows in what is supposed to be a nonchalant manner. And when that doesn't work (he seems to be choking) I try a cheery wave and a casual roll of my eyes, as if to say, "well, here we are again, would you believe?"

But he's not waving back. He's clutching at the Warden Assisted Emergency Button which is hanging round his neck. It flashes red as he presses it. "Ah, calling someone to help pick up the toast," I summise.

I give him a thumbs up sign with both hands and a knowing wink, which is more tricky than you think from my horizontal position, legs akimbo.

He stops pressing the button and starts holding his chest, sinking to the floor as he does so, until he is out of view under the windowsill (presumably making a start on clearing up the butter that landed on the carpet, before the warden arrives.)

"All done" cries an upbeat voice from Down South. I hop off the couch and adjust my dress before leaving.

"Ooh" she says, " I am a pickle today aren't I? I clean forgot to shut the blinds! I'm so sorry."

She peers through the surgery window towards the flat opposite.

"It's a good job old Mr Phillipoussis over the road is out today. He's got a weak heart. Seeing something like that first thing in the morning could finish him off!"

Find out more about the cervical smear test - with the blinds closed....

Paws For Thought No.13

2009-06-02T07:59:00.000-07:00

The more people I meet the more I like my dog.
Anon

I don't get Twitter!

2009-04-03T04:26:00.000-07:00

I've tried embracing modern technology, I really have. With both hands, using a firm but steady grip.

Mr P Jones and I have a house stuffed full of things sprouting wires, chargers and USB cables, and I know what most of them are!

I have an iPod, I know what mp3 is. I know there are two types of Blackberry; the one that is a fruit, and the other one - the one that is not a fruit, which I accidentally dropped down the loo, and now dried out, will only ring people whose names start with P.

I know that MSN is not an ingredient in my Friday night take-away. I have a Tom Tom Sat Nav, although I have never got it to tell me anything other than "YOU ARE HERE" while it points helpfully at my home address.

Nobody can accuse me of not knowing the difference between the TV and the microwave. (Well, not since Sony sent me a polite letter to explain that it was an integrated slot-loading DV player and not an automatic oven tray for mini pizzas, and if I rung them ever again to say that my TV viewing was being constantly interrupted by pictures of melted cheese, they would cancel my maintenance contract).

I have a website. I have a blog. I'm on Facebook, although slightly grudgingly I have to admit.

I have a Google account, a Yahoo account, a MySpace account (where I thought I had one friend, a chap I've never met, who is a Star Trek fan in California called Tom Anderson. And who it turns out is actually President of MySpace and used as a default "friend". This would explain why he never answered any of my messages, asking if he happened to know how to lever pepperoni out of a TV set...)

So I'm "wired for" a darn sight more than sound, as Sir Cliff would say.

But I just don't get Twitter.

Why would anyone else want to know what I am doing, all the time? And more to the point, why the hell would I want them to know?

Let's face it, there are things we all do as humans, that we would rather not share with our nearest and dearest, let alone the outside world. Like, say... picking food out of your teeth with your nose stud... not that I do that, you understand!

Allegedly "Twitter is a service for friends, family and co–workers to communicate and stay connected through the exchange of quick, frequent answers to one simple question: What are you doing? "

Now, 133 years ago, a rather clever chap called Alexander Graham Bell put in a considerable amount of time and effort inventing the telephone, for this very purpose. And he didn't limit the questions you could ask, to one, once connected.

According to the "Why use Twitter?" page, on their website, it's imperative that people know when you are eating soup... No need to tell them what type of soup, just when you are eating it. They need to know. Apparently.

You are also rather limited, to where you can "Tweet", if like me, your mobile phone is on the blink because it has been immersed in diluted Toilet Duck.

So, you are stuck behind the computer keyboard, using both hands to type, therefore making it fairly difficult to be doing anything wildly exciting that may be of interest to others. Unless you are particularly dextrous with your toes.

For example, imagine I do use Twitter. It would go something like this....

What are you doing?
I'm writing in Twitter, while eating a delicious bowl of homemade tomato and whelk soup, thank you very much for asking.

Oh, what are you doing now?
I'm savouring my soup and wondering if Jamie Oliver may be interested in the recipe.

What are you doing now?
Just having another big spoonful of this heavenly soup and reaching for my glass of wine.

What are you doing?
Er, still typing, still eating sou.... oh bugger! Hang on a moment can you?

What are you doing?
Looking for a cloth, dammit. Just spilt wine on the carpet. Just putting my bowl of soup down here, while I reach across and grab a tissue.

What are you doing?
Oh for f*** sake! No, no, no! Oh crap!

What are you doing?
Spilling a bowl of soup in my bloody keyboard, that's what I'm doing!

What are you doing?
What do you think I'm doing? Tap dancing?!! Mopping up bloody soup, of course! Of all the damn fool questions....!

What are you doing?
Oh God, now I've got a whelk lodged between the G and the H keys!

What are you doing?
Tryi*/g --- to disL@dgge the wHe%lk with mY spnoon!£!!!

And so it would go on.

A painful, searing, whelk infused, insight into the disaster strewn life that is mine. And that is why I am not yet ready to share it with Stephen Fry and chums.....

Paws For Thought No.12

2009-03-06T04:58:00.000-08:00

The dog's kennel is not the place to keep a sausage.
Danish Proverb

Oh Poo!

2009-03-06T02:10:00.000-08:00

Living with the Furball is such a joy. There are so many positive aspects to dog ownership, it is hard to think of anything negative about the experience....until today.

It started out in exactly the same way as all our other days do. We have a set routine and we do like to stick to it closely.

The alarm clock shatters my slumber, at 6.30am on the dot, closely followed by 3 stone of wriggly, bony spaniel, standing on my windpipe, and licking me in the eye! This is the daily sign that he feels it's time to get up and play with his squeaky rubber pig.

A sentiment we do not often share.

I run a bath and get in. He drops assorted toys, dog kibble and other interesting but unidentifiable objects into the tub, turning what was supposed to be a refreshing morning dip, into human soup.

I get out of the bath, covered in more muck than I went in with. He runs excitedly around the house, dragging my clean underwear with him, which up until now had been carefully positioned, ready to clamber into on my exit from the bathroom.

A chase ensues. Me - pink, puffing, wobbly and naked. And him - small, happy, snuffling, and dribbly.

I always win eventually. But there again, I always go to work with underpants covered in dog slobber, so who is the real winner, I ask you?

I skip breakfast. He grabs huge mouthfuls of his, and then tail wagging furiously, spits it out, all over the kitchen floor. Apparently being alive and up of a morning, can make you so excited, you forget to swallow.

I make my lunch, being closely scrutinised, in case there may be a sausage or two, in the offing. There never is, but he lives in hope.

"There's nothing for you. This is a tomato. You don't like tomatoes"

"Are you sure it's not a sausage?"

"Sorry, it's definitely a tomato. I'm having salad. See?"

"So, not a sausage then?"
"No, not a sausage."

"Oh.... I like sausages. Got any on you?"

"No, I'm making salad" I say, getting a cucumber out of the fridge.
FB's eyes bulge in his little furry head.

"Now that's what I call a a sausage. Can I have some?"

"No, this is a cucumber. Not a sausage...."

And so it goes on. He'll never learn.

Furball, laughing at me, not with me....

We commute. On a train. He has a fan club.

We move down the carriage, him stopping to be petted and given the occasional dog biscuit, by his adoring public. "Morning Furball!" they cry, as they see him approach, "and how are you today?" "Fine thanks" I start to say, before I realise they are talking to him, and not me.

He graciously swats the lucky few, with an extended, (always wet and muddy) paw. I mutter about sending me the bill for any dry cleaning, and make a mental note to get a later train for the rest of the week.

Our daily journey is spent, with him hoovering up crumbs and other detritus from beneath the seats. And me hiding behind a large book, pretending not to notice he is giving off regular and powerful noxious vapours.

From time to time, I tut and glare at the person sitting next to me, for the benefit of those who cannot see the FB under my seat, but who may be thinking I was responsible for the "woodland" fragrance wafting through the compartment.

The final part of our journey to work, takes us through open fields, which can be a positively delightful way to start the day. The sound of birds singing, the spring flowers raising their delicate heads, the sun's rays gently warming the damp earth. It's absolutely enchanting.

Apart from today....

This is also the time of day that FB likes to er, do his ablutions, shall we say. And as a responsible dog owner, I am always prepared with a giant roll of pedal bin liners, in readiness to collect any by-products of his morning routine, that may otherwise be left behind, for someone to step in.

And this morning was no exception. He trotted off to the "little boy's room" to do what a man's got to do.

I put my Eco friendly hessian shopper down by my feet, and took out the roll of plastic bags. Gaily whistling, I rolled one up my arm to the elbow, ready for action.

With one final shake of his small behind, he was off chasing pigeons, without further thought to his morning "deposit".

Now, if you have ever been passed through a dog, you will know it is not an entirely pleasant experience. And things which start off looking quite pleasing to the eye, at the beginning of that journey, can appear vastly different when finally arriving, at the other end.

But needs must. I bent down and took the matter in hand.

As I was straightening up, a grey squirrel shot past me, only inches from my feet.... closely followed by FB, tongue flapping like a badly made flag, eyes out on stalks, as he charged across the dewy grass.

He cannoned into me, before taking off again like a rocket, running round and round the tree, where the poor tiny rodent had found shelter.

I steadied myself, then looked down, bemused to see a now empty, polythene encased hand. "What the...? Where the hell did that go?" I spun round, searching the ground for signs. Nothing.

And then, slowly, the full horror of the situation began to dawn on me....

I looked down at my lovely jute bag. Wide open. Still where I had placed it, by my feet.

The bag, that up until now, had only contained my lunch and a good book.

Paws For Thought No.11

2009-02-26T06:31:00.000-08:00

Dogs never bite me. Just humans.
Marilyn Monroe

Pearly Jones goes Platinum!!!

2009-02-26T05:12:00.000-08:00

I can't believe it! First, I get an email from Simon Green at my web hosting company, saying that he absolutely loves my website, pearlyjones.co.uk

So much so, in fact, that I suspect he is sitting at his desk, stroking his screen lovingly and gazing at the rose pink background, as I write.

But now, the CEO of the company, Brooke Bryan, has thrown his hat into the ring too! When Simon told me he had passed my details on for consideration, in the unholy scramble for Platinum Status, I was delighted. But to actually be selected....? Well, that was beyond my wildest dreams!

So you can imagine how excited I am to now receive a personal email from Brooke telling me I am the chosen one!!!

He tells me "the decision this month has been really difficult". I can imagine, Brooke, I really can... What with Simon bombarding you with websites for consideration and the current economic downturn, and the coffee machine on the third floor being on the blink again.

It's a wonder the poor love makes it into work in the mornings.

But there's more...."The calibre of the top 50 websites is very high and I had to make my decision based on design, website layout, initiative, ease of use and most importantly for me your marketing potential and whether I feel you have what it takes to become an online success in a very tough time for the ecommerce industry."

I worry about the pair of them to be honest, I really do. Sitting there, in a damp, soulless basement office, desperately scouring the tens of thousands of websites they get a month, looking for that one gem.

I'm wondering if someone has slipped a little something into the office water cooler?

This would at least explain why they think a person with a blank homepage, admittedly in a lovely shade of pink, but not much else, has marketing potential. And why Brooke's decision was based on design, layout and initiative, amongst other attributes... three things, which sadly do not exist yet, on my newly hatched website.

I'm beginning to think that if he really can see all that, in my webpage (and let's call it that, as it is not even a site, yet), then perhaps he should be looking to reduce the levels of whatever medication he may be on.

He signs off with a cheery "I look forward to working with you closely in the future."

Absolutely, my dear, just as soon as you can provide a letter from your doctor confirming your hallucinations are under control. Tell you what... I'll call you.

But it's not all bad news. I do understand why my webpage got top marks for "ease of use".

It has one link. You can click it. It brings you here.

Paws For Thought No.10

2009-02-25T14:44:00.000-08:00

When you lie down with dogs, you get fleas.

Jean Harlow

Simon Green loves Pearly Jones....

2009-02-25T12:14:00.000-08:00

I'm very excited.

Only a few weeks ago, I had no blog, no website and in fact, no internet connection whatsoever.

Up until now, the nearest Mr PJones and I have come to embracing the modern age, is to stand in the garden, separated by a length of taut parcel string, with a yoghurt pot firmly Sellotaped to each end.

We figured if we pointed the empty pots at passing satellites, we might pick up a signal, in the same way you could talk to your mate next door, in the 1970's, using the same technology... It has not been an entirely successful experiment so far.

So, having modems and WiFi routers, hard drives, and optical mice, sharing the same living space with us and the Furball, has been one small step for mankind, but one giant leap for the PJones household.

But all that is about to change...! Wonderful things are starting to happen!

For I received an email today, from a new friend, called Simon Green. (Although I'm sure he won't mind me using his first name, as I can already tell we are going to be inseparable!)

Simon works as a Product Director for the company that hosts my newly acquired web space.

This company, my mate Simon tells me, currently receives over 10,000 new websites a month! Therefore I can only surmise that Simon is very busy, and very important. So bless his cotton socks, for taking time out of his busy schedule to contact little ol' me!!!

And the reason for his email? He loves Pearly Jones!!! It's true!

I'm a little worried he may have a few psychotic episodes

To quote my New Best Friend Si: "Once a month myself and our marketing manger (Simon's obviously not so hot on spelling, but I can help him with that, over time...) look through all of our new accounts and select 50 websites which we believe have future potential based on their design, page layout, initiative, and development quality."

"These sites are then presented to our CEO, who will choose 10 of them, and offer these website owners our exclusive platinum service."

Now, at this point, I'm welling up! I'm just blown away that Simon has got in touch. I mean, 10,000 new websites? A month? That's a lot of reading to be done.

I find myself wondering whether my poor, brave boy has repetitive strain Injury, from all that wrist action, using his mouse, day in, day out?

But it must be fate, of course. Of all the websites, in all the internet, he had to click into mine! I'm blushing now... can you tell?

The delectable Simon, goes on: "I am very happy (note: not just happy, but very happy) to inform you, that we have just put your website forward.... Your website was actually a favourite of mine which I put through personally, so congratulations!"

I'm so happy, I could cry!! Simon obviously loves me! My website was a personal favourite of his!!!

Out of tens of thousands, he was drawn to mine, like a moth to a flame. Barely being able to tear his eyes away from it, long enough to send an email over to his CEO... "Dear Sir" (for I'm thinking Simon has impeccable manners and a winning smile). "This is the one..."

I have to have a little sit down, I'm so excited! Because apparently, not only could I be offered the exclusive platinum service, no less, but darling Simon has also promised that the successful website owners will receive a personal e-mail from the CEO himself!

Mr PJones comes in and asks what the commotion is all about. Trying hard to hide my elation, I sit him down and attempt to explain how this could be an end to all our worries.

We have hit the Big Time! We will soon be receiving Exclusive Platinum Service and a personal email. Life is going to be good!

Mr PJones takes a moment to ponder on this, and then asks whether Simon is a minimalist? Likes pink.... a lot? Or was held back a year at school?

He asks, whether "Simon" (and yes, he says it in inverted commas, as if my new friend may not even exist!), "has ever seen my website?"

"Of course he has!" I exclaim hotly! Simon says it was "a favourite of his!" I stamp my foot several times, for added emphasis.

"So, this Simon bloke?" Mr PJones continues. "He has looked at it, read all of it, clicked on every link and still, he enjoyed it to the full?" he adds doubtfully.

"Of course he bloody well has", I shout, anger rising. "I'm up for Exclusive Platinum Service, for God's sake!!!! It's like the Oscars, only on the internet!"

"It's just..." Mr PJones continues with his cruel but possibly insightful, onslaught, "you haven't even built it yet!"

And, as you can see, he does have a point....

www.pearlyjones.co.uk/

My website, as of 25th February 2009, the date Simon fell in
love with it. And possibly a work still in progress....

Well, blow me down, you don't think this is just a marketing ploy, to make me sign up to more services with Just Host.com - The professional webhosting company, do you?

I can't believe my New Best Friend, Simon Green, Product Director, would do that to me....

AND THERE'S MORE....CLICK HERE FOR THE LATEST ON THIS STORY

Paws For Thought No.9

2009-02-18T14:52:00.000-08:00

Oh the saddest of sights in a world of sin, Is the little lost pup with his tail tucked in!

Arthur Guiterman

Confessions of a Shopaholic

2009-02-18T13:11:00.000-08:00

Forgive me Father, for I have sinned.... Or at least according to the Vatican I have.

For the tiny, but mighty Catholic state, sited in Rome, next door to the icon shop, in between the ice cream parlour and the rosary emporium, has had a survey conducted.

Without wishing to risk the wrath of The Big Man Upstairs, or any of his merry men in Vatican City, I'm not totally convinced by the results. Apparently the most common sin for women was pride... while for men, the urge for food was only surpassed by the urge for sex.

The survey was based on confessions, studiously dissected by spritely 95 year-old Father Roberto Busa, a Jesuit scholar. A veritable spring chicken by the Vatican's standards. Although aged, he may be, there's nothing apparently wrong with his hearing, even when the sound is filtered through the heavy carved mahogany divide, of his ancient confessional booth.

Apparently, to give this even more credence, (the survey that is... not the fact Father Roberto has ears like an elderly bat), the Pope's personal theologian, Monsignor Wojciech Giertych, who could be even older than Father Roberto for all I know, backed up the report.

Possibly waving an old wizened, holy finger to send the point home (only a guess, I wasn't there, I was out sinning), he went on to say "the most difficult sin for men to face was lust, followed by gluttony, sloth, anger, pride, envy and greed."

"For women, the most dangerous sins were pride, envy, anger, lust, and sloth" he added.

But the Vatican City and I will have to agree to disagree.

For us gals, Shopping is the most dangerous sin. Seeing something we can't afford but know we must have, regardless of the fact it's far too small (unless we lie down, very still and hold our breath - does this count as Sloth?) but was the only one left in that colour.

Removing the hanger, folding it very, very small, and hiding it in the depths of your bag on the way home, and then burying it further, in the bottom of the wardrobe, only for it to emerge two weeks later with a casual "What? This old thing?" (And no, I'm not referring to Father Roberto again).

That's possibly a sin as far as I'm concerned. Oh, and of course, chocolate. A sin in itself.

But in the grand scheme of things, when there is so much war, disease, global catastrophe, and the threatened comeback of a surgically enhanced version of 80's UK pop duo Dollar, far higher on the list of worldwide horrors.... You can pretty much forget having a pair of leopard print, wet-look, pleated leggings hidden in your wardrobe, after one Hail Mary.

And as for the boy's top three? Lust, Gluttony and Sloth? Turn them the other way round and you might have a point.

The only way to entice the lovely, but eternally sleepy Mr PJones out of his slothful pit, is to waft a full English breakfast under his nose, (therefore appealing to the glutton), while whispering, temptingly, in his ear sweet nothings such as "Darling...the cricket is on TV and England are winning by 10 wickets...

Read the BBC news feature: Two sexes "sin in different ways"

Paws For Thought No.8

2009-02-15T15:23:00.000-08:00

Our dog chases people on a bike. We've had to take it off him.

Winston Churchill

Iluminating times....

2009-02-15T10:54:00.000-08:00

Did you know in England, there is such a thing called Lighting Up Time?

According to the Road Vehicles Lighting Regulations of 1989 (amended in 1994 and 2005) this makes "the use of front and rear position lamps compulsory on vehicles during the period between sunset and sunrise".

And by vehicle, they mean, any non-living form of transport, including, (according to Wikipedia), floating tree trunks and icebergs.... So a car is a vehicle. A bus is a vehicle. A floating tree is a vehicle. However, a cow is not a vehicle. Nor is a donkey. Neither is a horse.

But a bicycle? Well, with two wheels, a frame, and a wicker basket up front, I think we can safely say a bicycle is very much a vehicle. And is therefore covered by said lighting regulations.

So who forgot to tell the lady, who ploughed into me and the Furball last week, that when it is dark and you cannot see where you are going, you need to illuminate your bicycle accordingly. This way, you will not end up with a punctured front tyre, buckled spokey dokeys, and a rather surprised face-shaped indentation in your blood spattered, wicker handlebar basket.

There we were, Furball and I, gaily trotting down the hill to the railway station, taking time out to urinate on lamp posts and other vertical conveniences. Sniffing the odd dog's bottom, that sort of thing. (FB, not me, you understand? Urinating's ok , but I draw the line at the sniffing)

We arrived at the road, looked left and right and then left again, being smart and safe, as taught to us by Mr Alvin Stardust in 1976. (How times have changed! Can you imagine the government making a road safety film now, starring a man with leather gloves, enormous sideburns and a bad wig, who sidles up to unsuspecting children, as they are about to cross the road? I'd take my chances with the traffic!)

Anyway, there we were at the roadside, watching a car in the distance, headlights on, coming our way, and we took the joint decision that we had enough time to wee, sniff and cross in a safe manner. So we did.

Only to be met by a screech of brakes. Hers.... And a screech of shock. Mine....

As I somersaulted over her handlebars, I could just make out the look of utter horror on her face. "Sorry!" I screamed, in a typically British fashion, as I landed head-first on the tarmac road surface. "I didn't see you!".

The Furball, whose lead I had dropped on impact, and who had been following my airbourne progress with some interest, came over to see if anything edible had dropped out of my bag during the show.

I crawled to the kerb, trying not to swallow my dislodged teeth. "I'm frightfully sorry" I said. Actually, because of the sudden loss of my molars, what I actually said was "mmpphfll sssozzzfulllll pllbb". "But you have no lights on your bicycle".

She leapt off the machine, and dashed round the front to check the wicker .... carefully examining it for tooth marks, small pieces of scalp, etc. Once reassured that the hand woven, basket work was still in tip top condition, she turned her attention to me, on the ground, frantically dropping handfuls of broken teeth into a bottle of raspberry flavoured drinking yoghurt. (Well, I'd read that if you accidentally lose teeth, you can keep them temporarily in milk, until you arrive at A&E, where they can put them back in. And I didn't have any semi-skimmed on me).

She regarded me in the same way a small child who has just pulled all the legs and wings off a fly, would, with what's left. She turned back to the bike.

"I do hope you haven't damaged it" she muttered, as I lay in a buckled, twisted heap at her feet. I attempted to staunch the arterial blood, spurting from my body, with an ankle sock. Thank God I got my First Aid badge in Brownies.

Finding my mouth was now free, of almost all my teeth, I tried again. "I really didn't see you. YOU HAVE NO LIGHTS ON YOUR BIKE". I was angry now. Bruised, spurting, toothless and angry.

I continued "YOU... ACCORDING TO THE ROAD VEHICLES LIGHTING REGULATIONS OF 1989 AMMENDED IN 1994 AND 2005, ARE SUPPOSED TO HAVE LIGHTS ON YOUR BICYCLE WHEN IT IS DARK. VERY MUCH LIKE IT IS NOW, IN FACT!"

She rolled her eyes and shrugged, holding up her hands as if to say "but what can you do?" And with that, she took hold of the handlebars, and pushed the offending vehicle, off into the night, without even a backwards glance, at the crumpled bloodied, gummy splat, that I'd become.

"You can get some bloody lights for your bloody bicycle, that's what you can do!!!" I yelled after her, into the gloom, feeling slightly smug that I had remembered the correct year the regulations and amendments came into force. And that the Wicker Woman, would now know I was a force to be reckoned with.

I dragged myself to the nearest lamp post, and sat, leaning against it, dazed and grazed, highlighted in the yellow pool of artificial light. One of the fallen.... But, regardless of my injuries, feeling blessed that I had survived, and relieved because it could have been so much worse.

Furball, who had up until this point, been regarding things in a quizzical, but non-committal sort of way, padded over to the street light which was supporting me....

And cocked his leg.

THE TWILIGHT ZONE....

According to the National Maritime Museum there are three different definitions of twilight:

Civil twilight - when the Sun's centre is 6° below the horizon, and it is pretty dark. Dark enough say... to run over a person and a small brown dog.

Nautical twilight - when the Sun's centre is 12° below the horizon, meaning it's really dark. Dark enough in fact, to be unable to find your bicycle and therefore also unable to climb aboard in a carefree manner and run over a person and a small brown dog.

Astronomical twilight - when the Sun's centre is 18° below the horizon, is when it is truly dark, and you are asleep. Dreaming no doubt, of those happy days before 1989, when you could brazenly leap aboard your bicycle at dusk and happily mow down people and dogs, without any lights, whatsover.

Want to know what to light, and and when to light it up, as a bicycle owner? Get all the details from the Cyclists' Touring Club - apparently the UK's national cyclists' organisation.

Paws For Thought No.7

2009-02-11T15:41:00.000-08:00

"Dogs love their friends and bite their enemies, quite unlike people, who are incapable of pure love and always have to mix love and hate".

Sigmund Freud

My Bloody Valentine!

2009-02-11T14:26:00.000-08:00

Over the decades, I have spent many a St. Valentine's Day wishing I too, had someone who would lavish me with a slightly dented box of Black Magic and a wilting bunch of petrol station daisies*.

And for years, it wasn't to be. The postman only ever delivered bills, but never statements of undying love.

Now I am finally off the shelf, married (and probably to be fair, a little past my "use-by" date too*), I look back at those desperate, lonely years, remembering the heartfelt yearning of wanting just one Valentine's card....

One teeny weeny, itsy bitsy card. Even a gift tag would do! (But not one in my parent's handwriting, which is what a school friend got every year).

Annually, I'd wake up at dawn, on the 14th of February, and think "please let it be this year." But alas it never, ever was. Oh yes, it was for others, but not for me....

And to be completely honest with you, that sort of thing, after a time, can leave a girl a little bitter and twisted. And in some cases, make her turn to, er.... poetry.

So if you are single, on the 14th of February this year, my advice is to seal the letterbox shut, from the inside, buy yourself a decent box of chocolates, crack open the champagne (it goes so much further when there is only one drinking it...) and, quite frankly, bugger the lot of 'em!

Oh, and of course... to read the following little verse, and then have a Happy Valentine's Day regardless!!!

Tough Love....

The buzzing at the window pane,

Beyond the muslin drape,

The constant tap, the beating wings,

Attempting an escape.

Thought "must have flown in earlier,

through the open door?"

His presence in my dressing room,

I tried hard to ignore.

Once I knew, he was there too,

it was difficult to stay,

as calm and controlled as I should.

It’s a painful sting, they say....

So I found an empty drinking glass,

to catch, and set him free.

But he dodged my every clumsy move,

and darted straight for me!

Imagine then, complete surprise,

when, it turned out he....

was not, in fact, an irate wasp,

but a tiny, fat baby!

Albeit one, with gauzy wings,

and a golden head of curls.

But also “tooled up” to the hilt.

With Hugh Heffner’s eye for girls!

He fixed me with a sultry gaze,

he thought I’d not resist

Raised his tiny bow and aimed

but I ducked.... and he missed.

I hit him with my fly swat, twice,

quite hard, and from above.

And that my Dears, is how you deal,

with unrequited love....

Paws For Thought No.6

2009-02-08T13:33:00.000-08:00

Anybody who doesn't know what soap tastes like, never washed a dog.

Franklin P. Jones

The soap bubble bursts!

2009-02-08T11:31:00.000-08:00

Someone once emailed me excerpts from a series of notes, sent by a hotel guest, to the house keeping staff, regarding the issue of soap to their room. It was so funny, I kept a copy, for years.

It was the sort of email, you thought probably wasn't true, but sincerely hoped was....

Imagine my disappointment today, when I finally discover that S. Berman, unwitting soap collector and the hotel guest involved, was just a figment of someone else's fevered imagination! So my happy bubble has burst, and I am feeling a little deflated.

And all this disappointment, thanks to Snopes, a website that aims to right all internet wrongs, the online purveyor of the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth...

I'll happily admit it's a useful site, and definitely the place to go, to check the validity of chain emails that suggest a friend of a friend, was attacked in the local supermarket car park, by a knife wielding, purse stealing, mad eyed, sex maniac, who has been hiding in the glove compartment for the last five weeks....

But there are times, when you wish it would turn a blind eye, and not tell you the truth! Times when "what you don't know, won't hurt you". And Mr S. Berman and his soapy dilemmas was one of those times!

Thanks to the kill-joy website, I now know "Hotel Soaps" is sadly a work of fiction. But it is still very funny.

Mr PJones and I have stayed at hotels where the staff have shown a similar understanding of customer service. But unlike, the ficticious Mr Berman, I like to pocket everything in a hotel bathroom, that is not nailed down, so would have been very happy to receive a bumper soap delivery.

For those of you, who have not had the pleasure of reading the full script, here it is:

"Dear Maid,

Please do not leave any more of those little bars of soap in my bathroom since I have brought my own bath-sized Dial. Please remove the six unopened little bars from the shelf under the medicine chest and another three in the shower soap dish. They are in my way.

Thank you,S. Berman

Dear Room 635,

I am not your regular maid. She will be back tomorrow, Thursday, from her day off. I took the 3 hotel soaps out of the shower soap dish as you requested. The 6 bars on your shelf I took out of your way and put on top of your Kleenex dispenser in case you should change your mind. This leaves only the 3 bars I left today which my instructions from the management is to leave 3 soaps daily. I hope this is satisfactory.

Kathy, Relief Maid

Dear Maid - I hope you are my regular maid.

Apparently Kathy did not tell you about my note to her concerning the little bars of soap. When I got back to my room this evening I found you had added 3 little Camays to the shelf under my medicine cabinet. I am going to be here in the hotel for two weeks and have brought my own bath-size Dial so I won't need those 6 little Camays which are on the shelf. They are in my way when shaving, brushing teeth, etc. Please remove them.

S. Berman

Dear Mr. Berman,

My day off was last Wed. so the relief maid left 3 hotel soaps which we are instructed by the management. I took the 6 soaps which were in your way on the shelf and put them in the soap dish where your Dial was. I put the Dial in the medicine cabinet for your convenience. I didn't remove the 3 complimentary soaps which are always placed inside the medicine cabinet for all new check-ins and which you did not object to when you checked in last Monday. Please let me know if I can of further assistance.

Your regular maid,Dotty

Dear Mr. Berman,

The assistant manager, Mr. Kensedder, informed me this morning that you called him last evening and said you were unhappy with your maid service. I have assigned a new girl to your room. I hope you will accept my apologies for any past inconvenience. If you have any future complaints please contact me so I can give it my personal attention. Call extension 1108 between 8AM and 5PM. Thank you.

Elaine Carmen
Housekeeper

Dear Miss Carmen,

It is impossible to contact you by phone since I leave the hotel for business at 7:45 AM and don't get back before 5:30 or 6PM. That's the reason I called Mr. Kensedder last night. You were already off duty. I only asked Mr. Kensedder if he could do anything about those little bars of soap. The new maid you assigned me must have thought I was a new check-in today, since she left another 3 bars of hotel soap in my medicine cabinet along with her regular delivery of 3 bars on the bath-room shelf. In just 5 days here I have accumulated 24 little bars of soap. Why are you doing this to me?

S. Berman

Dear Mr. Berman,

Your maid, Kathy, has been instructed to stop delivering soap to your room and remove the extra soaps. If I can be of further assistance, please call extension 1108 between 8AM and 5PM. Thank you,

Elaine Carmen,
Housekeeper

Dear Mr. Kensedder,

My bath-size Dial is missing. Every bar of soap was taken from my room including my own bath-size Dial. I came in late last night and had to call the bellhop to bring me 4 little Cashmere Bouquets.

S. Berman

Dear Mr. Berman,

I have informed our housekeeper, Elaine Carmen, of your soap problem. I cannot understand why there was no soap in your room since our maids are instructed to leave 3 bars of soap each time they service a room. The situation will be rectified immediately. Please accept my apologies for the inconvenience.

Martin L. Kensedder
Assistant Manager

Dear Mrs. Carmen,

Who the hell left 54 little bars of Camay in my room? I came in last night and found 54 little bars of soap. I don't want 54 little bars of Camay. I want my one damn bar of bath-size Dial. Do you realize I have 54 bars of soap in here. All I want is my bath size Dial. Please give me back my bath-size Dial.

S. Berman

Dear Mr. Berman,

You complained of too much soap in your room so I had them removed. Then you complained to Mr. Kensedder that all your soap was missing so I personally returned them. The 24 Camays which had been taken and the 3 Camays you are supposed to receive daily. I don't know anything about the 4 Cashmere Bouquets. Obviously your maid, Kathy, did not know I had returned your soaps so she also brought 24 Camays plus the 3 daily Camays. I don't know where you got the idea this hotel issues bath-size Dial. I was able to locate some bath-size Ivory which I left in your room.

Elaine Carmen
Housekeeper

Dear Mrs. Carmen,

Just a short note to bring you up-to-date on my latest soap inventory. As of today I possess:

On the shelf under medicine cabinet - 18 Camay in 4 stacks of 4 and 1 stack of 2.
On the Kleenex dispenser - 11 Camay in 2 stacks of 4 and 1 stack of 3.
On the bedroom dresser - 1 stack of 3 Cashmere Bouquet,
1 stack of 4 hotel-size Ivory, and 8 Camay in 2 stacks of 4.
Inside the medicine cabinet - 14 Camay in 3 stacks of 4 and 1 stack of 2.
In the shower soap dish - 6 Camay, very moist. On the northeast corner of tub - 1 Cashmere Bouquet, slightly used.
On the northwest corner of tub - 6 Camays in 2 stacks of 3.

Please ask Kathy when she services my room to make sure the stacks are neatly piled and dusted. Also, please advise her that stacks of more than 4 have a tendency to tip. May I suggest that my bedroom window sill is not in use and will make an excellent spot for future soap deliveries. One more item, I have purchased another bar of bath-sized Dial which I am keeping in the hotel vault in order to avoid further misunderstandings.

S. Berman

Paws For Thought No.5

2009-02-05T15:14:00.001-08:00

Old dogs, like old shoes, are comfortable. They might be a bit out of shape and a little worn around the edges, but they fit well

Bonnie Wilcox Author

Let it snow!

2009-02-05T13:22:00.000-08:00

Yes, let it snow, let it sleet, let it rain! In fact, let old Mother Nature do her very worst! I have nothing to fear, for I am wearing my wellington boots.

And these are not just any wellington boots.... these boots are made for walking, these boots have history, these boots can be filled with custard, and don't give pigs indigestion, and best still, these boots are bubblegum pink! Although, officially, I believe the colour is described as fuschia....

So, I'm now of an age when the weather has started to win, over fashion. No longer will I totter off into the chilly February night, wearing nothing but high heels and a whimsical suggestion of a skirt....

Mainly, I admit, because:

I'm in bed in my fleece pyjamas by 9pm, clutching my teddy, and a glass containing my spare teeth.
Stilletto heels can seriously damage an electric blanket and invalidate your warranty.
Any suggestions of a skirt, now, would be lost under four layers of thermal, hold-up, hold-in, all-in-one, indoor-outdoor and round-the-back type, sensible, knee length underwear, with Spandex gusset and elasticated waist.

But all that aside, there comes a time in a girl's life, when you have a choice - wearing really nice shoes and getting your feet soaking wet, or encasing them in heavy duty rubber and knowing you can go to the moon and back, without incurring even a small damp patch between the toes.

With that in mind, for my birthday and Christmas last year, my sister who lives in a cottage, in the woods, with a tiny pony and a shepherd (and therefore knows about such things), gave me a pair of pink Hunter wellingtons. One foot for each occasion.

Now, I have owned wellies before, you understand.

In fact, I still have a pair of £14.99 rose patterned ones on the go now (and much admired at last year's Hampton Court Flower Show, they were too). I also own a pair of diabolically cheap, leopard print ones (only really fit to give to the dog as chews), and a rather expensive giraffe print set, which have been worn so much that they developed holes even Duck tape couldn't fix. And believe me, I've tried....

But they all pale into insignificance, against my Hunter wellingtons. Mine even have space on the inside, for me to write my name! Not, obviously, in marker pen, but in fountain pen, in real ink, on the tiny label inside each one, in case either of my legs forgets which is which. Owner: Pearly Jones Left... Owner: Pearly Jones Right...

You only have to look at the brand website to know you are in distinguished company. They have two Royal Coats of Arms.... HRH the Queen and HRH The Duke of Edinburgh. And that means they wear them all the time. To royal engagements, Trooping the Colour, garden parties, dinner functions, walking the corgis, State Opening of Parliament, to bed.... everything.

And so do I, now. With the recent weather, which can only have been released by Beelzebub himself, I rely on my pink Hunter wellingtons constantly.

In fact, the cheery colour of my wellington boots, has raised so many smiles, in the last few days, that I decide to go the whole hog, and wear a matching coat in the same glorious hue.

Standing out, on a white snowy backdrop, looking (more than) slightly like a huge piece of over-chewed Bubbly bubblegum (without Bazooka Joe), I intend to make the damp, grey world, a happier place.

So, with a spring in my waterproof, but orthopedically designed step, and pink neoprene warmth in my heart, I venture into the snow, in matching wellingtons, overcoat and a pashmina ensemble, to greet the new day, with a smile.

A pinstripe clad fellow walking past me in the opposite direction, his Saville Row trouser hems taking a considerable battering against the slush and salt deposits, takes one look at me.... a Raspberry vision of loveliness, in his path.....and mutters the word "Jesus!!!!"

No dear, he has a long flowing beard and I believe his Hunters are white.....

Ahhhh, men....

Hunter Wellingtons - Bow down before them....

Paws For Thought No.4

2009-02-01T14:26:00.000-08:00

A man may smile and bid you hail, Yet wish you to the devil;

But when a good dog wags his tail, You know he's on the level.

Anonymous

A Room With A View

2009-01-28T13:11:00.000-08:00

The Roger Smith Hotel in New York describes itself as "a friendly, intimate, boutique hotel, in the center of New York City's most elegant hotel district."

The website goes on to elaborate: "All of the Roger Smith's lodging accommodations exude the warmth of a guest room in a good friend's home where live plants and book collections contribute to that feeling."

Obviously the management team at the Roger Smith have a better class of good friend, than I do....

I have stayed in a variety of lodging accommodations supplied by some of my nearest and dearest and I don't ever recall being exuded on warmly, by plants or book collections. Not even a slightly musty, overdue library edition, is on offer, Chez Amie.

I was, however, exuded on by a friend's cat once, although since feline friends aren't listed by the Roger Smith Hotel, I'm not sure it counts.

I woke up, very early, thinking that it was either raining indoors or that their pipes had burst, only to find a large black cat, sitting on my pillow, dribbling profusely onto my forehead, which was apparently a sign he was ready for his breakfast.

That sort of thing would never happen in the Roger Smith Hotel. This is, after all, a place where "even the junior suites have 289 square feet of floor space (with not an inflatable airbed in sight), and occupy corner positions in the building, which offer more windows and more natural light."

And here is the part were it all goes horribly wrong....

As the couple in Room 501, (delightfully situated on the corner position of 47th and Lexington), have discovered. Although they have more windows, their natural light is somewhat obscured by the sea of faces peering in from the other side.

You see Room 501, has been turned into a gallery for four days, or rather the gallery, has been turned into Room 501.

Being the Roger Smith Hotel, they do of course have a gallery space, and what better way to fill it, than to dress it up as a hotel room and let two people, Londoners Duncan Malcom and Katherine Lewis, stay in it for free?

Of course, they had to be British, because everyone knows us Brits, are stark raving bonkers? Although let's hope the couple don't take that last statement too literally, in light of where they are.

Having watched the BBC video clip of them relaxing in the room, with a nice cup of cocoa, surrounded by acres of carpet. and a matching pair of his and hers slippers, I can't help wondering why there isn't more mess? It's not like that when Mr PJones and I go away....

When we stay at a hotel, especially a nice up-market one that doesn't expect you to bring your own soap, we do like to make full use of the amenities on offer.

For a start, once we have decifered the swipe card mechanism for the door, we do enjoy turning every single light on, then off, and then back on again, just to see which switches do what. (Don't judge me, but I will never cease to be entertained by a few well placed uplighters).

Once we get bored of this (and it can take a while), we have a boisterous round of bouncing on the bed and any other upholstered furniture.

We'll rummage to find and then crack open the bottle of bubbly that we have smuggled in, in my strangely heavy weekend bag, and prance about the room with glee, in the happy knowledge we didn't pay the inflated £65 that the room service menu suggests is reasonable.

If I'm feeling particularly frisky, I'll pull all the covers off the bed to see how many stains there are on the mattress. (forewarned is forearmed, afterall). And at least I'll know which side, to make Mr PJones sleep on.

We carefully cover every inch of the room, hunting for biscuits, complimentary bottles of water, shoe shine cloths, and on one truly happy occasion, a bag of Jelly Belly Beans and two nectarines.

No stone is left unturned, no cupboard door left shut, no safe uncracked, no curtain left untwtiched. And only once this microscopic, finger tip search, has been concluded to our satisfaction, and our faces stuffed with the spoils, do we turn our attention to the bathroom.

If it is a good hotel, which I suspect the Roger Smith Hotel in New York is, we will, by now, be wearing the matching toweling dressing gowns, and disposable slippers, left out for our comfort. Our pockets filled with biros, envelopes, compliment slips and other assorted hotel stationary, and of course, if it is small enough to fit in a robe pocket, the Gideon Bible.

But by then the call of the bathroom will have become too strong to resist....

Mr PJones, usually in first, will head straight for the flushing mechanism, to check how robust it is, while I count all the towels, and fill my wash bag with shampoo, conditioner, body wash, nail files, cotton wool balls, cotton buds, and the Holy Grail amongst complimentary effects, the sewing kit.

I always unwrap one of the little bars of soap and wash my hands, as if it can somehow cleanse me of the sins I have just committed.

I'll then have a bath, filling it up with every foaming unguent available, which, once immersed, gives me the appearance of being just a floating head on a sea of foam. A floating head, wearing a free disposable shower cap and sleep mask...

After this, we will while away our time, emptying the mini bar of everything but the pretzels. Mr PJones, blissful, lying on the bed in nothing but his ancient holey pants and newly polished shoes, watching TV. And over by the dressing table area, I'll be damp, squeaky clean, and busy sewing small white plastic shirt buttons onto the curtains, with scarlet thread from my newly acquired sewing kit.

The floor will be littered with biscuit crumbs, spare socks, dog biscuits, tissues, shoes, newspapers and other detritis, that accumulates as soon as you put foot through the door of a hotel room. But we will be happy, like pigs in muck, safe in the knowledge, that no-one will see what we are up to.

Not so for Duncan and Katherine alas. The chap who organised the whole Room 501 event, Matt Semler, of Real Live Billboards, said “We want people to think of this as a live reality show. You will be able to watch the young couple resting, eating, arguing, seeing them at their best and their worst while they visit the Big Apple."

"You can watch their every move without fear of getting arrested for being a “peeping Tom” continued Semler. This final statement is a little unfortunate though, as it implies that any folk in New York who do spend their time peering in through windows, are now welcome to hang around the Roger Smith Hotel, and get their kicks for free....

Watch the BBC News report on the Hotel Room with a View

The Roger Smith Hotel, New York - Official website

Paws For Thought No.3

2009-01-20T09:12:00.000-08:00

They never talk about themselves but listen to you while you talk about yourself, and keep up an appearance of being interested in the conversation.
Jerome K.Jerome

Tony Hart

2009-01-20T08:40:00.000-08:00

I would have attempted to write a witty, intelligent tribute, to mark the passing of a man who was the artistic inspiration for thousands of children; the legion of little folk, armed with crayons, glue and paper, who followed his every brush stroke with rapt delight.

However, the blog by Paper Monitor - a service highlighting the riches of the daily press - has already done it, and I suspect, rather better than any online offering I would have posted.

I hope you may take the time to read his page on the BBC site.

Paper Monitor on Tony Hart

But I will just add this:

I spent hours as a child, trying to replicate things I had seen Tony do so brilliantly, on television. My efforts never came out quite the same.... but I suspect the kindly Mr Hart would have been pleased that I, and all the other hundreds of children, who did so too, had tried.

I absolutely loved Morph. Still do.

I found out today Tony was also responsible for the design of the orignal Blue Peter badge, (I had two - a white one, and a blue & silver one).

He never did choose any of my pictures for the Gallery, but I can't say I blame him....

Tony Hart died peacefully on Sunday 18th January 2009, aged 83. He is survived by his daughter, Carolyn, two grandchildren, and a small plasticine man called Morph.

BBC Local for Surrey and Sussex: Tribute to Tony Hart

Paws For Thought No.2

2009-01-19T10:40:00.000-08:00

A dog is not "almost human" and I know of no greater insult to the canine race than to describe it as such.

John Holmes

When the moon hits your eye....

2009-01-16T10:20:00.000-08:00

In 2007 the Italian Academy of Cooking launched what the BBC termed “a scathing attack“ on the standard of Italian restaurants abroad. Apparently “two thirds of the restaurants reviewed mistook the ingredients“ (for what, it doesn’t say) or bolognesed up the preparations.

Worse still, Benito Fiore, the authentic Italian who had the unfortunate task of chomping his way through overdone Gone-Coldé and Pollo Alla Blandanara while reviewing the 320 restaurants, came to the conclusion that the blame, partly lies, in the fact, that some restaurants have no Latin connection whatsoever!

In fact, the closest some ever get to the Amalfi Coast, or anywhere south of Watford, for that matter, is Dean Martin on a CD in the background, crooning That’s Amore.

But even before poor Benito embarked on his world tour, Luigi Amaduzzi, outgoing Italian envoy to the UK, had told the Sunday Telegraph, that the bulk of restaurants and pizzerias in this country were "average" and recommended that us Brits should refuse to pay for inferior Italian food.

So it’s unlikely either would have been impressed by the encounter with “Italian” cuisine we enioyed a couple of weeks ago.

One afternoon, after a post Christmas shopping trip, to buy what we neither wanted nor needed, we decided to sample the culinary joys, of one of the many international dining experiences, now at our disposal, since our town had a face-lift.

Thrown by the wide choice of gastronomic delights, and in the heat of an argument over whether we should plump for authentic Portugese ( Chicken with Peri Peri in a bun) or authentic Mexican (Chicken with Guacamole in a bun), we opted for the one restaurant which had no queue, therefore no waiting time. And in fact, had we given any thought to the matter, no customers…

Without naming names, it’s a chain, and although they’ve made huge effort with the décor – warm Mediterranean colours on the walls, lots of 1950’s Vespa posters etc, there is not a garlic scented whiff of authenticity about any of it. Least of all, the food.

After a couple of minutes of standing in the doorway, looking hungry, we were greeted with a cheery “Bonnjawnor” from a bubbly blonde with an accent so thick you could stand a breadstick up in it. Alas, it was more Essex than Italy…

But, at least she was making the effort. She showed us to a small soulless table, in the centre of the room, illuminated by the million candle power of a large fluorescent spotlight.

We said, that while her choice of table in an otherwise empty restaurant was perfectly acceptable, we wondered whether she may have another small soulless table somewhere nearer the edge of the room…. She did, although strangely, not actually in the restaurant, but in the bar area. Right underneath the air conditioning vent. Perfect!

We settled down in our overcoats, at our tiny freezing table, looking longingly back at the one we had turned down….while she went off to get some menus. It only took us a few minutes to choose but what seemed like an eternity to order.

Time passed, frostbite set in and our waitress had become obsessed with polishing every single table within an inch of its life, and forgotten completely about her only two customers. We tried to catch her eye, but with fingers numb with cold, we were worried they might snap off, if we waved them too much in the freezing blast above us.

A kindly barman took pity on us, and took our order instead, explaining that it would take half an hour to cook. We didn’t ask why, although had he explained that chef’s idea of cooking was to make sure everything was as dry and black as the Tuscan night, we probably would have chosen a salad.

At some point in the next hour, our waitress remembered that the two blue people sitting in the corner didn’t work there, and she came to take our order. We explained that it had been taken a week earlier, and that we were now just waiting for it to be burnt to a crisp.

“Oh”, she said, "I’ll keep my eye out for it….” as if our meal might make a dash for freedom, and scuttle through the empty restaurant towards the open door, only to be met by our waitress brandishing a stick of garlic bread to beat it back into submission.

She went off to polish some more tables and we carried on counting our fingers and toes to see how many we had lost between us, so far.

After a very, very long wait, the food arrived, although thankfully, not under its own steam. But we never did see our waitress again.

The chap who delivered it, seemed not to notice that my husband’s meal was now the chemical make-up of charcoal, (according to the handy Periodic Table in my 2009 Young Scientist's Pocket Diary). This therefore, rendered it inedible, to everyone, apart from folk with internal gas issues who've been prescribed it, by the medical profession.

Neither did he seem surprised that the Garlic Grossini - with garlic and melted mozzarella, had been mislaid en route from the kitchen, and then, when they finally put in an overdue appearance, were missing the advertised garlic and the melted cheese, therefore making them very expensive dry toast.

And my spaghetti, presumably sitting, ready to go, while they were busy cremating everything else, had turned to a congealed, graying, and weirdly powdery mass, slumped on the plate, with a small smattering of rubbery pink spam-like meaty cubes.

But we still ate it….

And here lies the difference between the Italians and the British.

The Italians, with their love of eating well, would never have pretended it was food, let alone served it up, under the pretence that it was.

I'm certain Benito Fiore would have complained very loudly, possibly with several hand gestures to illustrate his point, while for Luigi Amaduzzi, refusing to pay and storming out could be the only option.

So what did we do? We discussed between us, how truly awful it was, (in hushed tones obviously, so we didn't upset anyone) and then, when asked, by the chap who bought the bill, if everything had been alright with our meals.....?

We replied “Yes, thankyou, mmm lovely, very nice” and left a tip….

Read the full BBC article on the Italian Academy of Cooking

Paws For Thought No.1

2009-01-15T14:15:00.000-08:00

Outside of a dog, a book is man's best friend. Inside of a dog it's too dark to read.

Groucho Marx

The Love Drug

2009-01-14T14:10:00.000-08:00

The New Scientist featured an article online today, confirming something I have long suspected... That "Puppy love is all you need", to keep you blissfully happy.

Apparently dog owners who spend time gazing into their pooches eyes, experience a significant increase in their oxytocin levels, which is a hormone nicknamed "the love drug". This hormone acts as a neurotransmitter in the brain and is linked to mother/baby bonding, friendship and romantic love.

Takefumi Kikusui, of Azuba University in Japan is quoted in the article, as saying "a flood of the cuddle chemical could explain why playing with dogs can lift moods and even improve symptoms of anxiety and depression".

Us dog lovers tend to be oblivious to the warm wafts of fishy breath, wet lolling tongue and tickly whiskers of our canine companions, if there is a warming hug to be had. There is nothing quite like gazing, close-up, into those liquid chocolate pools, and imagining he loves you back, as much as you love him.

And there you both sit, nose to cold wet nose, mooning over how wonderful your life together is, how contented and blissful you are, and what a wondrous thing the relationship between man and dog can be....

And all the time, he's wondering when you are going to stop giving him the eyeball, and hand over any bits of old sausage or biscuit, he's hoping you have hidden about your person....

Our very own oxytocin inducer, eyes tight shut (in case of further experimentation), the non-seeing end quietly releasing a few "less friendly oxytoxins" of his own....

Read the full New Scientist article