Thursday, 21 July 2016


There is absolutely nothing I can think of that will effortlessly lift one's spirits than the prospect of a rendezvous with Kevin.


Despite the absence of three members (Tough Mudda called to end-of-year school performance duties, La Diplomat dealing with visiting relatives, and the Wine Writer undertaking experiments involving chicken houses, children's feet and lack of running water - yes, we were confused too) we still managed to put the world to rights and host some serious conversations that did not necessarily involve either a) food, or b) books.


Although of course it did not take long for us to partake in the former and discuss the latter.
And the Pimms was delicious too, especially on a hot summer evening in the Doctor of Psychology's leafy garden.

However, the most important item on the agenda was the upcoming nuptials of one of the Kevinettes: yes, Belfast Blonde is getting married next month and hence the bookclub momentarily transformed itself into an impromptu hen party.

Cue gifts.

All food or book related. 
Funny that.

And balloons.
Helium (one) and LED versions (five, one of which then burst because, as the Lovely Radiographer scolded me, "You made it too big!" - first time for everything, I guess).

And a veil - complete with cutouts of wedding themed book title covers.
Absolutely priceless.

But the coup de grace was the pink sash. 

Our lovely hen donned it with pride. 
We all looked at it askance, tried to decipher the lettering, and then the Botanical Artist voiced what most of us were thinking.

"Who is Kevinshen?"

"Oh," replied the Lovely Radiographer, "They didn't do apostrophes!"

So there you go.

Kevinshen is getting married.

No apostrophes required because she is pure class and we love her.

Kevinshen - a bookclub first


Sunday, 10 July 2016

How to make a mess in two short weeks - the speedy guide

Yes, it's still imploding.

And yes, it's going to get even worse.

We are but at at the peak of a very slippery slide-y slope into the depths of self-annihilation by proxy, aka 'how-to-push-the-destruct-button-without-assistance-because-it-seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time'.

I can only poke fun at a situation that is almost too comical to be real (but it is, real, I mean) and seek humour in what has become the death knell for my own business that I have spent three years building. I won't bore you with details, suffice to say that 'postponement' and 'procrastination' - by clients, not me - has morphed into total shutdown and cost-cutting with immediate effect and no sign of change for the foreseeable future.

Oh joy.

So we had this:

the 'real' reason DC had to resign

And this:

the truth behind the back-stabbing 'partnership'

And this:

I have no words
(well, I do, but not fit for publication)

Which has now morphed into this:

the man from Del Monte, he say he no go anywhere

Being challenged by this:

the Eagle has (almost) landed


Oh no. 

That little ditty now comes down to these two:

twins separated at birth?

And guess what?

Rather than focus on the humongous f*ck up that has been left by the referendum (at every level), the press and the country are now having a right old ding-dong about whether being a mother or not is a qualifying feature to lead a bunch of feckwits party country as the nation faces the abyss.

Talk about missing the point.

But then again, I guess that is consistent with the whole issue, isn't it? 

Hooray for propaganda. At least the results will be unswerving in that regard.

*continues to shake head in disbelief*


Yadda yadda yadda...