I Think I Need A Man

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

You know sometimes the germ of an idea manifests itself in your brain and the more you think about it, the more it takes shape and the more you think it’s going to work.

It. Is. The. Answer. Isn’t it?

It can’t fail, can it?

It’s brilliant, isn’t it?

Well.

There may possibly be a solution to The Widower problem, but I’m unsure as to whether I should set it in motion. It could backfire.

He phoned again yesterday morning asking if I was free. I expressed my ‘sorrow’ that unfortunately I wasn’t. I had to go and dig a big pile of worms up from the garden.

He then asked about today. Again, I spoke of my ‘regret’. I had an appointment at the zoo to do a spot of snake charming (but trust me, I ain’t never gonna be charming The Widower’s snake).

It transpired that New Lady is out of town until Friday, his mum is in hospital and he wanted my shoulder to cry on (shoulder eh? That’s a new one).

I visited my friend, Pink Crystal, today and we spoke about the pain in the arse this problem. As a throwaway remark, I said I need a man. A fake boyfriend.

Now I’m thinking maybe that’s not such a bad idea.

I need a fake boyfriend, but a man who really exists, one who’s willing to pretend to be involved with me. He has to be a real person so The Widower can meet him. Just the once.

I was talking it over with my mum; she also thinks it’s an excellent idea, although she said it would have to be someone I trust, and someone who I wouldn’t get into difficulties with. So I wouldn’t find myself jumping out of the frying pan into the fire, as it were. Between us, our thinking caps were on, trying to come up with a suitable man, when:

Mum: What about Dad?

Me: Ewww, that’s just icky. Ewwwwww. Ewwwwwwww.

Jokingly, I suggested I should tell The Widower I have a girlfriend.

Mum: NO! He might want to watch!”

Bugger.

Hadn’t thought of that.

I have it.

I need a gay fake boyfriend.

Yes, I know this all sounds ridiculous, but I’m getting really hacked off with it now.

If The Widower thinks there is a man on the scene, that I have a companion and I’m getting oodles of… hugs (you can remove your head from the bucket and stop gagging now, Eldest Daughter), he may back off.

Or.

And this is where it could backfire.

He may not.

He may just see that as being open season – he may think, as far as it goes, I’m up for it (the only thing I could be up for, is pushing him off Southend Pier. Hurrah! Southend Pier has a use after all).

Hmm.

What to do?

I’m having lunch with Wise One tomorrow, so I’ll run it by her and see what she thinks. She may even know of a willing victim have a suggestion for the ‘new man in my life’.

If I don’t do something, I will be pushed into turning into something I rarely do anymore:

I don’t like doing that, it unsettles me.

And it gives me indigestion.

They Have Got To Be Kidding

I went up to Derbyshire on Sunday, and while at Chatsworth House I bought a book – The Most Amazing Places To Visit In Britain - the 1000 most unusual, beautiful and captivating spots in Britain (their words, not mine).

Only I would go and buy a book that has nothing to do with the place I visited.

Much like going to Bakewell, home of the Bakewell Tart, going to the Bakewell Pudding Factory and ordering a slice of coffee and walnut cake. I really don’t know what I was thinking – I love Bakewell Tart. And I didn’t have any, or buy any to bring home. What a twat.

Also like being in Bakewell, going into one of the gift shops and coming out with a fridge magnet which is not in any way, shape or form relative to Bakewell. Once again, my inner moron took over.








Anyway, back to my book. I only gave it a cursory flick through before I paid for it. Had I have seen one of the places they’ve recommended before I’d parted with my cash, I think I’d have replaced the book back on the shelf, and bought another irrelevant-to-the-place fridge magnet and a slice of carrot cake instead.

This particular recommended ‘most amazing place’ has now made me doubt their judgement about the majority of the other places they’ve included.

The only explanation I can come up with for the inclusion of this place, is that the researchers got up to 999 places then developed Unusual, Beautiful and Captivating Fatigue. They’d had it. They were just too weary to go and find the thousandth place. So out of desperation and because they were probably up against a deadline, they included…

I can’t do it.

I don’t want to type it.

It’s just wrong.

You can’t make me.

I need wine.

Forget that, make it a large single malt.

[swig of malt]

Okay.

Here Goes.

The place included is...

[deep breath]

[another swig]

It’s...

[wail]

Southend Pier.

They have got to be kidding.

In the introduction of the book it says, and I quote, “…we have found 1000 amazing places where you may see or learn something to make your jaw drop.”

Oh yeah, Southend Pier’s inclusion made my jaw drop alright, and not in a good way.

The description in the book says, “The Pier is a breathtaking spectacle at first sight…”

Breathtaking? I really don’t think so. Whoever wrote that should be done for gross misrepresentation.

Once again I quote, “In spite of enormous changes in holiday habits, Southend Pier remains a magnet.”

What - like shit sticks to a blanket?

I’ve a good mind to write to them and tell them if they think Southend Pier is worthy enough to be included, then so is my front garden - they could, and should, include it in future revisions of the book.

I do not claim my front garden to be beautiful or captivating, but it could take one’s breath away.

My front garden currently boasts:

two vans (one with a broken window – visitors can marvel at the way the glass is hanging on in there, and for a few pence can take a small piece of glass home as a souvenir – I’ll even bubble wrap it);

two motorbikes (although SORNed, they could be rigged up to provide a fairground-type ride – hah! Southend Pier doesn’t offer that);

scaffold poles (could be used for ride – see above);

a ten foot long steel lintel (good for the kiddies, test their balancing skills);

an old garage door (could be propped up and used as a graffiti wall – byo spray cans);

a couple of nearly empty bulk bags – one with ballast in it (good for an archaeological dig – “ooh look mum, I found a pebble!”), the other with gawd knows what in it (I’m not looking – there’ll probably be all sorts of nasties in there – but excellent for a minibeast hunt);

a cement mixer (three possible uses: 1. another ride for small children (under adult supervision), making sure they haven't eaten before getting in - otherwise they'll puke; 2. a polisher for any pebbles found during archaeological digs of the bulk bag; 3. if puke is present, bung in pebbles to create Polished Pukey Pebbles™©).

Running next to my front garden is a ditch – which during the summer months tends to be dry – so I feel this would provide opportunities for a bit of a trek. During the winter, after prolonged heavy rain, white water rafting could be a possibility.

If visitors want to feel the fear, instead of looking down between the planks on the pier to see water below them, for a small fee, I’d open the door to the garage to show them the heap of shite that’s in there. That’s real fear.

At the moment there is also an added feature:

A bird appears to have spontaneously exploded – this provides a chance for any forensics amateurs to hone their skills.*








*Disclaimer: I (The Management) cannot guarantee this attraction will always be available – it depends on the local cats.

If the compilers of the book genuinely think Southend Pier ought to be included (and they obviously do because it’s in there) then, as I typed earlier, on that basis, I seriously think my front garden should be in there too.

In future when visiting any places of interest, I will give myself a good talking to, take firm control and buy something relevant to where I am.

Southend Pier, my arse.