Tuesday, 20 March 2012

Rottweilers and Rolf Harris

See, here's the thing. When I was growing up, I thought ( I really did ) that when you reach 18, someone on high presses a magic button and you suddenly become uber sensible. No more "wedgies", prank phone calls, sniggering at sex scenes, that sort of thing. When there was no change, I assumed I'd set the bar too high and it must be 21 when the magic happens. Much to my dismay, I still found phoning the personal loan department of a bank to request a loan for a flock of sheep ( because I couldn't be arsed to mow the lawn ) hysterically funny, so adulthood had clearly missed me in the queue. I did the only thing I could do in the circumstances, I decided to wing it. When I think back now to how much of a gobshite I must have sounded it makes me cringe, because I thought that now my clothes actually matched and I had a handbag and car keys I had truly arrived. Err, naw.

At some point through my twenties I had a startling revelation. "Adults" aren't adults at all, simply fatter children with a mortgage. I was thinking this evening ( randomly ) about a visit to my local supermarket in the not too distant past with Claire and Amanda. Never having been one to resist a dare, Amanda got down on the floor of the shop and threw a full on tantrum, much to the dismay of La Princess who placed herself several aisles away from us, (it ruins her street cred apparently, in fact the ongoing threat in my house is a big squishy kiss on the cheek in the middle of Asda). The tantrum had to be seen to be believed, it was enough to make any toddler green with envy, there were balled fists, kicking feet, the LOT. Claire and I were just about standing, with tears running down our faces. The best of it all was the rather rotund woman who wandered past us with her trolley, she said; "Do you know, I've always wanted to do that."

Moving swiftly on, anyone who knows me well will tell you, I'm constantly "greetin'" (crying). I cry when I'm angry, sad, frustrated, happy, in fact for any reason that you care to mention. One instance which comes to mind is that TV show which was on a number of years ago and featured Rolf Harris in a vet's hospital. In this particular episode, a HUGE skinhead turned up at the surgery with more piercings than sense and if you met him down a dark alley you would certainly clutch your handbag to your side. With him, was his very large Rottweiler, just to add to the schema. The vet gave him the terrible news that she was really suffering and in pain and the kindest thing to do would be to put her to sleep, so he asked if he could have a few minutes with her before she had her injection. In the end, he was crying, the vet was crying, Rolf Harris was howling and even the camera crew were sniffling. I was beyond consolation and howled for an hour. *sigh*

It's very seldom that the written word can reduce me to tears though, it usually has to be visual. I just found the exception to that rule. A number of ladies have collaborated on a blog where they can post anonymously about their lives as escorts, their backgrounds and anything they like really, it's called "Stories from behind the red light" and the link is here. The particular piece which got me is here. Now, I could go into a long rant about how if there was less stigma attached to the industry then she wouldn't have had to lie etc. etc. but the story is so powerful that it says all it needs to.

LL xx

P.S : I've been asked to do a guest blog once a month on a US site, how exciting is that ? I'll need to get my thinking cap on and change my spellcheck to the US version ;)


  1. P.P.S.: Please don't change your spellcheck. It's about time the Americans learnt how to spell. You could think of it as a different kind of missionary work

    Dr J x

    1. Haha, yep - enough bastardization of our language already ! xx


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