Reasons I Hate Summer: Flies

Flies are evil b@st@rds. They are evil enough when there isn’t a heat wave, but extreme heat brings on a whole new level of evilness, no?

Bins stink. It’s part of being a bin, but the heat is making the bins extra-stinky and it’s attracting flies by the trillions. This wouldn’t be as much of a problem if my bins were at the end of a very long garden, but I live in a terraced house with a very small back-yard so my bins are well within whiffing distance – as are everybody else’s.

At this time of year there is always the danger of maggot infestations. Makes your skin crawl doesn’t it? Take it from one who knows: when you’ve battled the maggot-massive, you NEVER want to do it again!

Plus, it puts you off eating boiled rice. For ever.

You get me?

The fly is Ninja fast. You’ve opened and closed your bin lid in record time, but there’s always one who’s the Usian Bolt of the fly world. It’s flown in before you know it and if it’s a female, she’ll dump around 75-100 eggs onto the bags of rotting food. The next day, you wander out in your slippers with a bag full of potato peelings and you see that some tit has thrown loose rice in your bin. This isn’t your doing. You don’t throw food in the bin like her up the road. You’re posherer. You’re just about to throw a strop when you notice that the rice is ALIVE.

You’re torn between wanting to scream in horror and not wanting to draw attention to your BIN OF SHAME because having maggots is like having nits, as in, it can happen to anybody, but nobody wants to admit to it, right? Luckily for me, I’ve got a massive manhole. NOT a euphemism! I’m referring to the manhole in my back-yard which is indeed large enough to fit a man in should I ever need to conceal a body!

I am joking, of course.

Or am I?

Moving on..

Got a lil maggot problem? Chillax! (are people still saying that?) I have tips!

The Maggot Slaying Kit

  • A pair of Marigolds
  • Hot water
  • A massive bottle of industrial strength bleach
  • A brush that you’ll never want to use again
  • A bag to retch into

Don’t make the rookie mistake I did during the Great Maggot Infestation of 2015. I just hosed them down the drain. I didn’t kill them, innit? So some of them crawled up through the gaps in the flagstones and by ‘some’ I mean close on a hundred – all wriggling across my patio..

Maggots, EVERYWHERE!

For the Great Maggot Infestation of 2016, I was better prepared. I par-boiled the effers in the bin with a few shots of Domestos, then I swilled em down the drain.

Want to learn more about flies?

You know you do!

Fly Facts

1. Flies regurgitate digestive juices onto food so they can eat it. So if a fly lands on your quiche, it’s probably best to bin it. *boaks*

2. Rumour has it that flies do a poo EVERY time they land. (I’ll leave THAT one with you)

3. Flies are disease ridden arse-holes. Salmonella, E.coli. You name it, they spread it. For this reason, you should never leave food out uncovered. Not unless you want to defecate yourself dry?

4. Flies can walk upside down – coz they freakeh!

5. Flies have 360 degree vision (much like my mother) so they can see behind them. This would explain why the arseholes fly off whenever I creep up on them with a can of Raid.

6. Flies live for about 30 days, though their lifespans are shortened dramatically if they fly into my house.

7. Flies can lay up to 500 eggs in their lifetime – most of them in my bin.

8. Flies are agile and fast. That’s why you can drive yourself demented trying to swat the motherfunglers with a tea-towel.

9. Flies lay their eggs on rotting food and poo. Flies round shit, right? This is so that their offspring have something yummy to munch on when they hatch.

10. BRB – Gone to vomit.

Yo. Humanz. Am gonna crap on your Quiche!

So you see, there is much to despise about flies. Those buztards are bad news. That said, I do try to give them a fighting chance. I will open a window or a door, but if they don’t take the hint they get taken down with a tea-towel or a blast (or three) of Raid.

Meanwhile, here’s the question you’ve always wanted to know the answer to.

Why do flies do circles under your lampshade?

The flies patrol well-defined airspaces underneath landmarks like lampshades. … Male flies approach a landmark from below and, in the absence of other flies, settle to patrol an airspace close to the landmark. A second male approaching the same landmark chases, or is chased away by, the patrolling fly when it comes too close and may eventually settle to patrol 10–30 cm below the airspace occupied by the first fly. … The position of male patrolling stations relative to the landmark suggests that females might arrive at landmarks from the side (and not from below, as males do), thus crossing the dorsal visual field of patrolling males.

Source: Jochen Zeil. The territorial flight of male houseflies (Fannia canicularis L.) Behavioral Ecology and Sociobiology. August 1986, Volume 19, Issue 3, pp 213-219

In simple terms, it’s blokes fighting over girls up town on a Saturday night, innit?

Fly Porn.

But enough of fly mating rituals. Back to fly annihilation, yes?

Prevention is key to keep maggots at bay, so here are some tips.

Fly Control Tips

The first step in fly control is exclusion and sanitation. If your house is a massive bin, and you like to have your windows open – YOU’RE GOING TO ATTRACT FLIES! However, even if you are shit-hot with sanitation and you’d rather drown in a pool of your own sweat than open a window, you will still get the odd fly who fancies its chances, so here’s what you can do.

  1. If you do find a fly in the house, try to entice it out of the window or door. Life is life, right?
  2. Failing the humane approach, confuse the shit out of it by using two rolled up newspapers instead of one.
  3. If that doesn’t work, give it a murderous blast of Raid.

Now, I am so fly-aware, those arsewipes don’t have time to shit, let alone reproduce!

I take no pleasure from being the fly-finder general. I think it’s sad to watch any living thing die, but we have to remember that flies are not cutsie kittens. Or fluffy wuffy gerbils. They are nefarious spreaders of disease. They will crap on your food and make the world fall out of your arse. Or they will drive you to the brink of insanity with their incessant BUZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZING. Plus they really know how to take the piss when it comes to picnics and BBQs. You get me?

Roll on Autumn, I say.

 

Now That’s What I Call Autism!

People of a certain age (*coughs*) will remember when a compilation album called Now That’s What I Call Music! came out in 1983.

I was 13.

What are we up to now? Now That’s What I Call Music 7509?

I’m almost 50!

No doubt, the multi-gazillion franchise will go on long after I’ve stopped breathing..

*Note to self* Record funeral mix-tape and call it, ‘Now That’s What I Call Being Dead!

The difference is that I could probably name all the tracks on the original album, whereas I couldn’t name a single track on the latest one. This is probably because I’m geriatric (not really) and geriatric people tend to live in a musical time-warp when they were youthful and had their own teeth.

I’m no music snob, but the auto-tuned, sampled-to-the-hilt crap that’s trawled out to the masses these days makes me want to hack off my own ears. What happened to pure talent? You could shove me into a recording studio with all its sorcery and I could could bang out a s(hit) record in three hours flat!

Granted, I would have to pay a body-double to do the bumpin’ ‘n’ grindin’ on the video, as that particular ship has sailed thanks to arthritic hips. Actually, I do grind, but it’s more of a ‘bone on bone’ thing which isn’t as arousing, especially when it’s combined with the stench of Deep Heat.

Anyway, back to Now That’s What I Call Music or as my dad used to call it, ‘That’s What I Call a Load of Crap!’

So, some of us bought (or were bought) Now That’s I Call Music on vinyl (album, not flooring). The rest of us pestered our mates/siblings to borrow it, which they did, albeit reluctantly, and only after issuing a warning of certain death if said album was returned to them with any defects, such as scratches or tea-stains on Tracey Ullman’s face.

The beauty of cassettes was that you got to spend hours of your life jamming biros into cogs trying to wind the b@stard tape back in. Remember that? Happy Memorex, eh? See what I did there? I’ll get my coat!

In the spirit of those bygone times, I present to my fellow autists, a mix-tape.

Enjoy and feel free to add ‘requests’ via the comments section.

A Side

1. Don’t Stand So Close to Me ~ The Police (for the claustrophobics, obvs)

2. Move Closer ~ Phyllis Nelson (for the space-invaders)

3. Too Much Information ~ Duran Duran (social media overload)

4. Anxiety ~ Good Charlotte (‘I am anxiety free!’ said no autistic person. Ever)

5. Green Day ~ Minority “Stepped out of the line. Like a sheep runs from the herd. Marching out of time. To my own beat now”. (blog author adds: So, up yours, haters!)

6. Pushing The Senses ~ Feeder (I push mine round in an old Tesco trolley) Too literal?

B Side

1. 99 Problems ~ Jay Z (I got 99 problems but the Nintendo Switch aint one)

2. Heaven Knows I’m Miserable Now ~ The Smiths “I was happy in the haze of a drunken hour, but heaven knows I’m miserable now” (You get pissed, wake up and realise that everything is still shit)

3. 19th Nervous Breakdown ~ The Rolling Stones (currently on my 20th)

4. Spinning Around ~ Kylie (literally, though not necessarily in size zero hot-pants)

5. Communication Breakdown ~ Led Zeppelin -“Communication breakdown. It’s always the same. I’m having a nervous breakdown. Drive me insane! (self-explanatory, really)

6. Beloved Freak ~ Garbage ~ “People lie and people steal. They misinterpret how you feel. And so we doubt and we conceal” (adoring you from afar, Shirley Manson, but not in a criminal way)

Bonus track – Senses Working Overtime ~ XTC ~ “I got one, two, three, four, five senses working overtime”. (My senses literally never clock off!)

Fade To Grey..

Our hair turns grey as part of the ageing process, though I prefer silver or ‘salt and pepper’ as grey is one of those depressing words, like beige.

When Do We Go Grey?

Most women will start to see the odd grey hair from around their thirties. I was in my twenties, but then I don’t like to be average. By the time most women hit their fifties, around 50% of their hair will be grey.

Getting that first grey hair is bad enough..

First grey pube? Horrifying!

Why Do We Go Grey?

Hair color is the pigmentation of hair follicles due to two types of melanin: eumelanin and pheomelanin. Generally, if more eumelanin is present, the color of the hair is darker; if less eumelanin is present, the hair is lighter. – Wikipedia

So, we ‘devenir gris’..

‘Eh?’

The Visage song, innit.

“Aaah, we fade to grey (fade to grey)”

Yeah? So, ‘devenir gris’ means ‘go grey’ in French. You can’t say that I don’t educate you in this blog!

*whispers* I used to think it was ‘Div in your Gary’, but lets get back to the hair.

So, some of us go to great lengths (intentional hair pun) to try and hold back time, but unless we understand the affect hair colour has on our ageing skin, we can end up making ourselves look older than we actually are, which, quite frankly, sucks.

For starters – dark shades can be ageing. Worse still is the band of white roots. There is about a three week period before roots start to show, then it’s another three weeks of zig-zagging the parting to break up those telltale lines of grey. Six weeks later, it’s back to the hairdressers for a touch up and it’s not cheap having your hair professionally coloured, but it’s a case of cough up or buy a dye-it-yourself kit and the result can look epically crap depending on how competent one is at application. PLUS, let’s not forget the state of our bathrooms when we’ve finished slapping the stuff on our scalps. Put it this way. My last application of ‘Cherry Red’ made my bathroom look like a crime scene. I didn’t know whether to clean the bath or dust it for finger-prints!

We naturally fade as we age. Our skin gets paler. We lose that flush of youth. Granted, we are menopausal, therefore no stranger to flushes, but they are more Beetroot Red than Rosy Pink, wouldn’t you say?

To carry off dark hair, we need to know what we are doing make-up wise. Take Joan Collins for instance. Dark hair, but shit loads of make-up and a make-up artist who knows their stuff. We can get away with a lot when we are young, but when we are older we need to make adjustments or risk frightening small kids.

Or looking like we’re stuck in a time warp..

Doctor, take me back to 1981. The decade of Duran Duran, Jackie magazine and collagen.

Speaking of time-warps, I remember a rather ‘eccentric’ lady who wore mini-skirts, stilettos and garish make-up in the 80s. She was fifty if she was a day, but she was definitely stuck in the 60s – which was probably when reached her prime? Later, in the 90s, there was another lady in her fifties who dyed her hair white blonde, and wore blue- glitter eye-shadow, flares and platform shoes that high, she must have required a step-ladder to climb into them..

The first time I saw her lurching up the street was a Life on Mars moment where I thought I’d somehow fallen into a coma and woken up in 1973. The giveaway were two lads, (complete with classic 90s ‘curtain’ hairdos), who were taking the piss behind her back. That is, until she turned around and threatened to give them a thrashing with her platforms.

If dressing like that made her happy, then fair enough because I know ALL about being different. That said, I’m a big fan of the 80s, but if I was to strut down the shops wearing a ra-ra skirt, legwarmers and slingbacks, I’m fairly certain my family would put me in a home.

The point is that we can’t reclaim our ‘glory years’, no matter how much we might want to, because the menopause affects EVERY aspect of our being. We are not that person anymore.

So, hair.

I’ve had my share of hairdos. Good, bad and downright criminal.

Mullet? I had one.

One of those daft pigtails on short hair? Had one of those too and boy did I look a tit!

Highlights. Lowlights. Perms. Straight. Backcombed. Bobbed. Shaved up the back ‘n’ sides. Long. Short. Mid-length. Blonde. Brunette. Red. Mahogany. Oh, and black.

Black was a BIG mistake.

I’m done now. I want to embrace my natural hair which has been greying since I was in my twenties. I’m about four months into growing my hair dye out. It’s doing my head in, but I’ll persevere.

So, I am probably getting my hair cut short this week, unless my hairdresser advises me otherwise, in which case, I’ll be wearing a hat.

Or a wig.

Viva La Menopause

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Back in Time: The 1980s

We had it all in the 80s..

Goodish music, cool films, strikes, threats of nuclear war, creepy DJs and legwarmers.

It was also one of those rare occasions when we won the Eurovision.

What? No! It had NOTHING to do with skirts coming off!

A lot has changed in the last 38 years since the start of that decade. Technology has gone STRATOSPHERIC and I have no idea what’s happening anymore..

So, how about a few comparisons between then and now?

TV

Now. There are about, ooh, a million TV channels to choose from? Yet you can still spend half an hour flicking through to find there is NOTHING on. I literally spent AGES flicking through all the channels last night and I ended up watching Fawlty Towers which was made sometime during the middle-ages. ‘Flowery Twats’ may be un-pc these days but it’s still hilariously funny.

Basil to his car: Start, you vicious bastard. Oh my God. I’m warning you, if you don’t start… I’ll count to three. 1, 2, 3, right, that does it. I’m going to give you a damn good thrashing.

They really don’t make them as good as this anymore..

Then. We had THREE channels at the start of the 80s. BBC One. BBC Two and ITV. Channel Four was launched in 1982 so that made a grand total of FOUR channels to choose from. Channel Four was a God send for us teenagers with programmes like The Tube and Brookside. I mean, who can forget ‘Debbie and Damon’? De Romeo and Juliet of der Pewl, eh?

‘Come here boy! It’s been five minutes since I gave somebody a damn good thrashing!’

DISCIPLINE

NOW. “Oh yeah? What are you going to do about it, Sir. I’ll have you arrested, Sir. You’ll be somebody’s bitch in prison, Sir!”

Discipline in secondary school consists of after-school detentions, confiscations, isolation and exclusion. When it became illegal to thrash kids, teachers had to get creative – not to mention medicated. However, it’s my understanding that teachers still have the right to use necessary force pupils in certain situations like if they are going to harm themselves or others?

THEN. In my day you got thrashed with a big fuck off stick and I’ve seen numerous blackboard rubbers hurtling across classrooms aimed at somebody’s head. It’s a wonder there weren’t fatalities. Maybe there were? Come to think of it, pupils were prone to disappearing from time to time. Was it truancy? Or were they concussed in A & E?

The glory years of corporal punishment came to an end in 1987 (two years after I left) though private schools carried on thrashing until 1999. In this instance, I think that 2018 wins because there should never have been a place in society for hitting children.

NUCLEAR WAR

NOW. There’s probably have a game about it on X Box featuring zombies. Also, President Trump likes to have ‘my nukes are bigger than yours’ competitions with anybody who takes the piss out of his hair/face/tan/hands/leadership.

I’d say this gives some cause for concern..

THEN. In 1983 there were two close calls. ACTUAL danger of ANNIHILATION due to a tiff between the Russia and America. A generation of kids and their parents properly shat themselves worrying over this. Parents were stock piling tins of beans so in the event of nuclear war we could fart ourselves into comas. Thankfully it didn’t happen but it gave Frankie Goes To Hollywood some inspiration for their number one hit, Two Tribes.

Remember this?

“The air attack warning sounds like
This is the sound.

When you hear the air attack warning
You and your family must take cover.”

Magzilla
19 September 1983

PSYCHOTIC FEMALE PRIME MINISTERS

NOW. People think Theresa May is bad?

THEN. She’s aint a patch on our pearl wearing overlord!

Margaret Thatcher (or “that woman” as my Labourite father called her) ruled as PM throughout the entirety of the 80s. This was the woman who a few years earlier (as Secretary of State for Education) abolished free milk for schoolchildren. Also, she and her popular (not) Poll Tax was responsible for the worst riots in Britain. Thatcher was possibly one of the most hated women ever. Certainly wasn’t popular in our house. In my opinion, Thatcher makes Theresa May look like Jar Jar Binks – only in leopard print kitten heels.

LEGO

NOW. Parents have to take out a second mortgage so their kid can have the Star Wars Millennium Falcon? I am STAGGERED at the price of Lego these days! I want to buy a kit, not the company!

THEN. One board, some bricks and you considered yourself lucky.

PHONES

Now. I’ve yet to clap eyes on a young person who isn’t attached to their mobile phone via an umbilical cord. You see them slumped over their phones in McDonald’s – Diet Coke in one hand – mobile phone in the other.

ALL of them on their phones.

NOBODY speaking.

Are they all sat texting each other?

It’s possible.

Then. While mobile phones existed in the 80s – they were the size of a shopping trolley and cost a fortune so us peasants had to make do with landline phones or public phone-boxes. You know, the red ones that reeked of fags and wee?

‘Blocking’ was when irate parents fixed an actual lock on the phone after receiving a bill of EPIC proportions – £40 in 80s money and about £160 in today’s. This usually included a few months of being grounded. Early parole was usually granted because parents couldn’t cope with having stroppy teenagers under their feet being all hormonal and horrible.

MUSIC

Now. Auto-tuned, shit sampled crap with pornographic videos and lyrics that would give your nan a coronary.

Truffle butter? Do yourself a favour and don’t Google it.

You Googled it dintcha?

Certainly puts Madonna and her pointy bra into place, eh?

Then. Sexuality has played a part in music for decades. Elvis was thrusting his pelvis at teenage girls in the 50s and in those days it was shocking. In 1978 Olivia Newton John was prim and proper as Sandy in Grease – three years later she was wanting to get ‘physical’ with blokes in a gym and I don’t think she meant half an hour on the treadmill! NOT that I knew what it was really about then because I used to pull on my legwarmers and go round the house singing..

You gotta know that you’re bringin’ out
The animal in me,
Lets get physical, physical, I wanna get physicaaaaaal…

Highly appropriate when you’re eleven years old, no?

THE SELFIE

Now. According to University of Florida’s Eunice Kim and colleagues in a September 2016 paper, there are 93 million selfie postings every day! That’s a LOT of duckface!

Then. Selfies aren’t a new creation, I mean, what’s the difference between a self-portrait and a selfie? It’s still a picture of YOURSELF, right? People have been using cameras to take picture of themselves for decades, it’s just that it’s so much easier now. In my day if you wanted to take a picture of yourself it involved much faffing and possible blindness when the flash went off in your face. Plus we were working with actual film so posing your way through a gazillion shots was NOT an option.

The 80s were my teenage years and I am part of the generation before technology went supersonic. Sadly, teens won’t ever experience that kind of simplicity again unless it’s part of some historical experiment to show how we used to live..

Fast forward 38 years and we live in a technological world where we communicate more with strangers than we do our own families. For autistic people like me, social media helps us to socialise because we are generally crap at it in person. That said, social media is good in small doses because it can easily become overwhelming. Life is too technological for our brains to cope with and as a result our mental health suffers and we have to take social media and, in my case – technology in general – breaks.

I have mixed emotions about the 1980s. Happy because it was the decade where I became a mother. Sad/angry/scarred because I was bullied by twats. Despite this – the frankly criminal fashions and Agagdoo do do push pineapple shake the tree – the 1980s was simplistic in comparison to today.

For me, THE best decade was the one that preceded it. Yes readers, hold onto your goddamn flares because next time I’ll be hauling you back to the 70s!

 

All images are public domain

Margaret Thatcher

The Vagina and the Menopause

Vagina and the Menopause is a good name for an all female rock band don’t you think?

No?

Moving on then…

I’ve droned on about so many aspects of the menopause but the thing that I have struggled with the most is the fact that my body is so different. It’s almost as if I am inhabiting someone else’s because this sure as sausages doesn’t feel (or act) like the one I’m used to.

In reality, I sort of have my body backthe body I had before hormones turned me into a psychotic mess every month. I just get to keep the boobs, the tell-tale signs that I have given birth to three children (one removed via my abdomen) and my battered vagina.

It’s Mother Nature’s gift to me.

The menopause is a natural part of ageing which affects you inside and out. This, combined with wrinkles can make you feel about as desirable as a pig trough, and as if that wasn’t crap enough – sometimes you lose your sex drive too.

It’s true. Sean Bean could be standing in front of you naked and you’re like, ‘Whatevs Sean. Put the kettle on love, eh?.’

I miss my oestrogen. I miss the feeling of calm it gave me. Also, the lubrication. Another crap thing about the menopause is how things start to, er, dry up. The last time my GP poked her finger up my vageroo, she informed me that, ‘It’s all healthy up there except for some slight atrophy.’

Slight what?

A trophy?

What the hell did it win? The vagina most likely to need a safety net as part of the birth plan?

For those of you who are not au fait with atrophy, I will enlighten you.

verb
verb: atrophy;
1.
(of body tissue or an organ) waste away, especially as a result of the degeneration of cells, or become vestigial during evolution.
“the calf muscles will atrophy”

Gradually decline in effectiveness or vigour due to underuse or neglect.

Now, you’d imagine it’s time for your weary vagina to get rest after decades of, er, use?

Nope.

According to the experts, you need to keep it ‘exercised’.

And lubricated.

Basically, you need to shove something up there once a month, even if it’s plastic and works on AA batteries – just make sure you wash it down after.

There is nothing REMOTELY dainty about the menopausal vagina that has seen some battle.

The menopausal vagina is like the state of your living room the morning after your teenage children have thrown a wild party. A total shit-hole with stuffing hanging out of the sofa and an odour that you can’t decide if it’s good or bad. Am I wrong?

Yes, your fanjo will smell different.

It’s another perk of the menopause. YAY!

Different is fine but if you find that a distinct fishmongery smell is following you around and people are passing out after you’ve been for a wee, you might want to get it checked out by your GP as offensive odours are not normal, sistahs.

Reasons for vag pong are as follows..

1. Bacterial vaginosis that causes a vaginal discharge and odor
2. Concentrated urine due to dehydration
3. Urinary tract infections
4. Urinary leakage

First thing would be to make sure you are drinking enough water.

Most of us don’t drink enough but as I have said, after the menopause it’s ALL about lubrication and hydration. One way of knowing if you are dehydrated is to check the colour of your wee. It should be pale. If it’s dark, you are most likely dehydrated. You should also be aware that medications and supplements can make your wee different colours. For instance, B12 makes mine day glo yellow.

The reason our vagina’s go from sweet smelling to not is due to pH levels. Aside increasing intake of water, you can improve the situation with exercise and a a bit o’ internal massage, you get me?

Then there are the aesthetics..

Generally, after decades of being pounded by penises (real or plastic) and heaving out human beings, the vagina looks like it’s gone ten rounds with Joe Calzaghe. Things, er, loosen up a bit. The unflattering term, I believe, is ‘bucket fanny’. This is where you regret not doing those pelvic floor exercises when the midwife told you to, eh?

The way your ‘fanny flaps’ hang arrange themselves also affects how you wee because if they are in the way, the wee can’t flow smoothly. Sometimes there’s a ‘sprinkler’ effect where the wee goes in several directions at once and if you haven’t pulled your knickers down far enough you can end up with a soggy bottom.

No, I’m not talking from personal experience. HOW VERY DARE YOU!

*lies through teeth*

Personally, I don’t have a problem with excess ‘flappage’ as I prefer to think of it as potential skin graft material should I ever find myself needing one.

Clouds and linings, people.

However, if you want to take drastic measures, you can buy a ‘designer vagina’ via plastic surgery.

Labiaplasty reduces the size of the labia minora.

In English: Over decades of having sex and giving birth, your flaps may start to resemble a pair of elephants ears as opposed to the mouse ones you started off with. These billowing flapolas are a match for the elephant sized derriere that also seems to be yours. This would explain the jump from skimpy briefs to all encompassing Spanx pants and why you can’t walk into Top Shop without setting off alarms..

The good news is that if you dare to go commando in Summer – the waft from your flaps will keep your thighs nice and cool and the flies off your chips.

WIN and WIN, ladies!

Labiaplasty reduces your flaps back to something like their former glory.

Vaginoplasty is designed to reduce the size of the vagina.

Self explanatory.

For between £1000 and £3000, you can have this done. I say, SOD THAT! I’ll take my chances with a tub of KY, Fem wipes and doing some Kegal exercises in the post office queue.

What do you say, ladies?

“Why do people say “grow some balls”? Balls are weak and sensitive. If you wanna be tough, grow a vagina. Those things can take a pounding.” Betty White

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Menopausal Gym-Dodgers Work Out

I hate the gym.

Firstly because I’m an anti-social arsehole. Secondly, I have a pathological fear of looking at another woman’s pubes (attached or on the floor) when I’m showering.

Communal showers? Me dear? No dear.

The last female pubes (other than my own) that I clapped eyes was in 1986 when I was shoved into the communal showers by our sadistic PE teacher who was having no more of my ‘Please excuse my daughter from showering – she’s on her period’ notes.

The gym not your bag either? Here are some simple (but effective) exercises you can do at home or when you are out and about.

The Curling Tongs Squat – Bum & Thighs

I use my straighteners for this exercise..

Instead of resting the appliance on a table, or between your thighs, put it on the floor.

Health and safety: Use a heat mat (obvs) or you’ll set fire to the farking carpet.

Starting in the standing position, keep your feet shoulder-width apart. Pull in your tummy, push your hips back and bend your knees, lowering the body into a squatting position. Pause, pick up your hair appliance, then push back up to the starting position. Fiddle with your hair a bit, then lower yourself back into the squatting position – placing the appliance on the floor.

Do these squats every time you do your hair and you’ll have a rear-end like Kim Kardashian in no time!

Health and Safety: Have your mobile phone to hand in case you pop a hip joint.

The Bag For Life Cardio and Bicep Workout – Biceps/Cardio

Go to local supermarchet and buy two carrier bags worth of groceries. These must include a few tins. I suggest ‘bags for life’ – not those flimsy pieces of shite they flog you for 5p. You know the ones – wispy bits of plastic that surrender under the pressure of a loaf and a packet of Kit-Kats.

Keep the loads evenly balanced and start walking home.

Build up a nice fast pace to get your heart going like the clappers, hence, cardio.

Once you’re nice and warmed up – start lifting your carrier bags as if you’re doing a bicep curl with a dumbbell. Do a few reps with the right, then switch to the left.

You might notice people crossing the road away from you or doing a finger-swirly thing at the side of their heads? Swirly-finger aside, they are actually doing you a favour because it means that you have the entire pavement to yourself. More room to throw those bags about, dears.

Too far to walk? No probs! Park your car further away and get a few reps in before you collapse onto the drivers seat. Opt for this instead of doing your shopping online and within a few months you’ll be fit as feck.

Or possibly dead after having suffered a massive coronary..

Health and Safety: Always carry your mobile phone should you need to phone for a taxi or ambulance.

StairMaster Challenge – Bum & Thighs – Cardio.

This one is really simple. You alternate between running up the stairs and taking them two at a time whenever you get the chance. Running up the stairs gives you a cardio workout and taking them two at a time will give you thighs like tree-trunks. Just think of how magnificent you will look in those hot-pants you’ve been hoarding since 1975!

P.S This won’t work if you live in a bungalow.

Door Slide Squat – Bums & Thighs

For this you need a door – preferably a smooth one.

Stand with your back against a closed door and slowly lower yourself down to squatting position, then slowly push yourself back up.

That’s it.

First time I did this, the buggering door gave way. Before I knew what was happening my Reeboks were up in the air and I was staring at the bedroom ceiling. £250 quids worth of You’ve Been Framed right there. Thankfully nobody knew about except me. And now you, readers..

This exercise works your bum and thighs. Again, it might be an idea to keep your mobile handy in-case you can’t get up once you’re down. Though, I always find that a military type sideways roll sorts that particular problem out.

Health and Safety: Always check that the door shuts properly or you could end up doing yourself a mischief..

Bath Bingo-Wing Blaster – Triceps

Bingo-wings are what happens when the skin on your arms (the muscle above your elbow) carry on wobbling long after you’ve stopped waving to your mate across the street. It’s the reason cardigans were invented and it’s why some menopausal women wear one even when it’s 33 degrees in the shade.

YES I’M TALKING ABOUT ME!

Bingo-wings are unsightly but you can get rid of them without having some sweaty sergeant-major wannabe hovering over you bellowing, ‘GIMME FIFTY, YOU ‘ORRIBLE LITTLE WOMAN!’.

For this exercise, you’ll need a chair. A stable chair. Not a B & Q plastic garden chair.

Sit on the chair and grip the edges either side of you. Move your feet forwards to lift your bum off the chair. Keeping your knees hip-width apart and bent at 90 degrees, lower yourself by bending your arms to about 90 degrees, keeping your elbows tucked in. Push back up and repeat 10 to 15 times.

I do this on the side of the bath when I go for a wee.

NOT that I wee in the bath..

This is the same as the chair exercise. You simply use the side of the bath as you would the chair, innit?

Health and safety: Don’t do this after having a bath. It’s asking for a fast ride in the back of an ambulance with the nee-nar on.

Pelvic Floor Workout

As we age the muscles around the bladder, vagina and bum passage get slack. This is why we piss ourselves laughing. LITERALLY. However, there are exercises we can do to help with this problem and the good news is that we can do them anytime, anyplace – anywhere.

If you want to ‘feel’ where your pelvic floor muscles are – stop yourself mid-wee. That is your pelvic floor muscle working only you shouldn’t do this as a strengthening exercise.

Squeeze the muscles about 10-15 times in a row.

You can do this while standing in the post-office queue if you like. Unless your concentrating face is the ‘tongue out’ kind, nobody will know what you are up to. Do these exercises every day and stick the Vs up to incontinence.

So there you go. No need to go sweating it out at the local gym or paying extortionate fees. All these are free.

Note: These exercises are valid (except for the carrier bag bicep-curl which is me being a tit) but it’s a good idea to get yourself an MOT at your GPs before launching yourself into any keep fit regime. Oh, and make sure your life-insurance is up to date in the event of you carking it mid-squat. 😉

Viva La Menopause!

 

The Dash In-Between

There is a dash which represents our lives between birth and death.

This is the dash.

en_dash_u2013_icon_128x128

My dash has one date before it because I’m still alive, or at least I think I am?

*checks pulse*

Yep, still here.

One day there will be two dates because there is no doubt, whatsoever, that I’m going to die.

I try not to worry about that too much.

OK, I’m lying through my teeth. I torture myself DAILY with thoughts of death. But then I suffer from health anxiety, innit?

I don’t fear death itself. Truth be told, living is hard graft when you are autistic and I’ll probably be glad of some eternal rest after a few more decades of life in the shit-lane. NOT that being autistic is shit. It isn’t. It’s the anxiety, that’s shit.

The thing is that death is still a bit taboo. Brits don’t like to think about death until they absolutely have to despite TV adverts encouraging us to ‘plan for the inevitable’. Life Insurance companies give away bribes gifts, like clocks, so you can watch the seconds tick away. Nice touch, Guys.

However, some of us don’t get the opportunity to plan for the inevitable because we get wiped out under the wheels of a Number 48 bus during a spontaneous sprint across the road to buy a pie or the shock of the £250 supermarket bill stops our hearts, literally. Or we succumb to some disease or other. We like to think we’re in control of our own lives but we’re not.

I’m 47 now. How did that happen? It only seems like yesterday I was snogging Nick Rhodes’ face off on my bedroom wall but thanks to an early menopause I feel like I’m in the re-make of Cocoon..

Having a biological age of 103 means I’m already down on the deal and at this rate I’ll be giving The Boy a lift to high-school on the back of a mobility scooter – which he’d probably love. Most women amble gracefully into menopause whereas I’ve been catapulted into it to find the hormone police waiting for me, truncheons at the ready.

‘ELLO ELLO ELLO! WHAT ‘AVE WE ‘ERE THEN? ‘OESTROGEN AND A FULLY FUNCTIONING PELVIC -FLOOR? WE’LL BE ‘AVIN THOSE! AND YOUR SANITY. HAND EM OVER, THERE’S A GOOD MRS. WE DON’T WANT NO TROUBLE NOW DO WE?’

Bastards.

So I’m swallowing all manner of pills and potions in an attempt to claw back a few years or at least slow the process down. It could be a lot worse. Of course it could because as annoying as my symptoms are, they are transitory and by the time I’m 50 (ish) I should be slightly less deranged. So my GP says, anyway..

With the menopause (and bits dropping off me at an alarming rate) I’m more aware of my ‘dash’ than ever. My parents are dead and mortality is slapping me in the face and, yes, it unnerves me. Someone told me that when you hit 40, it’s downhill from then on. They lied. It’s 35.

I grew up thinking that you got old and then you died. Grandma was in her 70s, as was Nan, and Grandad was a respectable 81 when he wheezed through the pearly gates…

That’s how I expected it to be.

Then the unimaginable happened…

A girl in my school died. She was fifteen years old.

Her dash was too brief.

Years later, my nephew died. His dash represented just four years. How sad is that?

My dad died aged 58 and by now I’d realised that ‘three score years and ten’ wasn’t a cert. To be fair, Dad’s dash was a happy dash apart from the last 12 months, which were shit.

I’m not afraid of death itself because I’m one of those lunatics who believe that consciousness survives death. It’s the before bit that worries me because I have the pain threshold of a testicle. I can’t even stand a deep clean at the dentist without having to be anesthetized so what chance do I have with something major?

I want to reach a grand old age (marbles intacto, obvs) where I can gracefully say, ‘Rightio, Death, I’m ready. You may take me now’. Then I want to slip into a Werthers induced coma having watched an entire box set of Ground Force and, seeing as this is my fantasy, Alan Titchmarsh can be the one to take me to heaven wearing nothing but his wellies and a smile.

That’s another thing about the menopause. One day you’re into Duran Duran and sling-backs, the next you’re craving middle-aged gardeners and comfy slippers. Or maybe that’s just me?

Death is going to happen sooner or later because none of us are immortal except for Bruce Forsyth who’s 302. We can always pay to have ourselves cryogenically frozen but it’s out of most people’s price ranges. Not to mention, creepy.

We worry about death but forget that before we were born, we didn’t exist. Get your brain cells around THAT one! We are part of something much bigger than ourselves but we’re all connected right down to the microscopic stuff that we can’t see. There is too much intricacy and beauty for it all to be random or meaningless, so says me. Our bodies become diseased or frail and eventually stop working but the essence which is us cannot die because it’s energy and energy doesn’t die – it just re-groups.

The dash represents our entire lives. We don’t get to choose when we we’re born and the majority of us don’t get to choose when we die. What happens in-between isn’t necessarily our choice but our attitude to any given situation, regardless of how difficult, most certainly is our choice. This is what our eulogies will be about. Not how long we lived, but how we lived.

In this little corner of the internet I make fun of myself because it’s therapeutic. I try to be kind to my fellow human beings even if I don’t understand them very well. My life will always require effort because I’m autistic, not to mention a nervous Nora. But I brought three amazing human beings into this world and that’s what I’m proud of and when the day comes when my dash is complete, I hope their memories of me will make their tears happy ones. Happy as in I’ll be missed. Not happy as in doing the conger round the living room shouting ‘YESSSSS!! THE OLD BAG’S FINALLY CROAKED! WHERE SHE KEEP THE WILL, BRO’S?’

None of us are getting out of this thing alive, are we? All we can do is accept death and hope that when he does come for us, he’s a friend. Most importantly, we need to make our dashes count.

“DON’T THINK OF IT AS DYING, said Death. JUST THINK OF IT AS LEAVING EARLY TO AVOID THE RUSH.” ~ Terry Pratchett – Good Omens

 

Beauty and the Menopause

I’m menopausal. Have I ever mentioned that? Think I might have done. I’m 47 but my biological age puts me somewhere in my mid-fifties. This is because Mother Nature can be a flipping cow when the mood takes her. Or maybe it’s to do with genetics? The bottom line is that the menopause changes you.

That’s why it’s called ‘THE CHANGE’.

The menopause is all about maintenance of the body AND brain. Or you can just say, ‘f**k it’ and let yourself go. That’s not an option for me because my mother and grandmother took pride in their appearance and they would haunt the crap out of me if I let myself go. Even when I was in the middle of a breakdown, I went through my routine. I just used a lot more dry shampoo because washing my hair triggered panic attacks but that’s for another blog post..

When it comes to hanging onto our bits and pieces, like hair, skin, nails and teeth, we need to work a LOT harder. We need to be aware of the changes in our body and work with them. Alas, some women are not prepared to put the work in after the menopause.

They allow their leg hair to go feral.

They neglect their toenails.

They allow their teeth to fall out.

They give up on themselves.

This does NOT have to be you.

Here are a few tips to help you stick the V’s up to looking old because if you look old, you will feel old. So grab your reading specs and get comfy.

Bathing

Once upon a time, we were able to soak in the bath for HOURS. Nowadays, we get twenty minutes max before we turn prune. No time for reading or daydreaming about Sean Bean. It’s ALL about BODY-CARE.

Menopausal skin is dry skin. There are numerous reasons for this, like lack of oestrogen, genetics, sun-exposure, alcohol and smoking. At this stage of the game you need to be moisturising the LIVING SHIT out of your skin. If you don’t, you’ll end up looking like Keith Richards, and if that’s not enough to have you sprinting to the skincare section of your nearest Superdrug, I don’t know what is..

Are you still using soap? As in, a normal bar of soap?

If so.

That tight feeling you get after using soap is because it’s removed the natural oils from your skin. If you must use soap, at least use a sensitive one with a low pH. Giving yourself a ‘lick’ with an ancient bar of Imperial Leather isn’t on. Throw it away!

When choosing bath or shower products, you need to look for moisturising ones. Glittery bath bombs? What are you, six years old? I use Sanex because it’s the only brand that doesn’t make me itch myself delirious. It’s also a good idea to ensure that you have a decent bath mat or you’ll be up the A & E with a fracture having face-planted your taps reaching for the loofar.

Oh and don’t forget to exfoliate that dead skin off!

Shaving

Obviously, I mean legs and lady bits although you may also be sporting a teensie weensie moustache by now. What can I say? Men get rogue nostril/ear hair. Women get muzzies.

A problem with ageing is that we may not as supple as we used to be. There are exceptions but mostly we start creaking like old floorboards with about as much flexibility. When it comes to de-fuzzing our legs, we can’t reach around the back as well as we could, so we end up with 6″ hairs which are a bit of a turn off. The days of girlie Bic razors (pastel shades) are gone. You are now in the Black and Decker power range and hardcore action is required to tackle your unsightly, er, premises. However, if you prefer the wild and natural look, you can save yourself time and money.

Nails

I’m autistic and struggle with eye contact so I look at the floor a lot which means I get to see people’s feet and believe me, I have seen some HIDEOUSLY BAD FEET in my time. I’m talking CLAWS, rather than nails. There are certain health conditions which cause problems of the foot but unless you are unfortunate enough to have such a problem, there is no excuse for sinisterly bad nails. If you really can’t be arsed to sort your nails out (or pay somebody to do it for you) then do us all favour and shove a sock over them.

A word about nail polish..

Is my general advice to steer clear of blues, greens and purples if you have varicose veins..

Make-up

Less is More.

When it comes to make-up and ageing, I often think of dear old Barbara Cartland. She was an amazing lady but wouldn’t you have thought that those closest to her would have advised her to lay off the electric blue eyeshadow at her age? In certain photographs she looks positively sinister! Thing is, wear the same make-up that you’ve worn for decades if you like but it will AGE you. If you find that people are stopping you in the street and booking you for children’s parties, it’s time to tone it down a few notches.

IT’S NOT THE 1980s ANYMORE, DEARS!

Look at it this way, teenagers use make up to make themselves look older. When you are older, the opposite applies. You need to wear LESS make-up to look younger.

Teeth

Now is the time that you REALLY need to start paying attention to your teeth.

As we age our teeth become worn and discoloured. Medication plays havoc with our oral health and we suffer bone and muscle loss. If we don’t take care of our teeth, we end up looking like Albert Steptoe. Sounds grim but there is much we can do to keep tooth loss at bay. For a start, brushing twice daily is a MUST. Flossing is a MUST. As we get older, gaps appear and food gets lodged in those crevices which brushing alone won’t remove. Blimey. I sound like an advert for toothpaste. But it’s true. How do you feel about last weeks bacon sarnie rotting away in your mouth? Barfarama, eh?

Thanks to receding gums, you will find that you have more enamel on show than you used to. This is something that I have noticed about myself to the point where I wonder if I should be running in the 2.30 at Goodward? Nothing you can do about this except to keep your gynormous teeth dazzlingly white. You could always offer your services as a mobile side-screen at your local cricket club. How about a Bee Gees tribute act? The possibilities are there, if only you choose to look.

There is a very serious side to gum health though…

How many of you know that gum disease can lead to heart disease, strokes and diabetes? Our hearts no longer have the protection of oestrogen so we need to look after ourselves more then ever, yes?

That’s all for today dears. Keep smiling, eh?

Creative Common Images Via Pixabay

 

 

Five Reasons Why Ageing Sucks

 

Teeth

Dental hygiene plays an important part in gum health. Brushing ‘n’ flossing keeps Gingivitis at bay but for some people receding gums can be a matter of genetics, so if several members of your family have receded gums, the odds are that you will too. I know, it’s shit.

I have nice teeth but there’s more tooth on show than there used to be, hence, I am starting to resemble Shergar. The good news is that I still have all my own teeth at 47, which is fang-bloody-tastic considering my mother had a full set of false teeth by the time she was 50. WIN!

Skin

As we age, our skin loses elasticity – it’s called Elastosis.

It’s where all those years of lying on the lawn nuking yourself come back to haunt you with skin that looks like crepe paper. You know, CREPE PAPER? The crinkly stuff we used to make flowers with at school?

Another perk (not) of ageing is that skin becomes translucent which is why we start to resemble AA road maps by the time we are in our 50s. At this stage, PLEASE GOD, DON’T WEAR MINI SKIRTS!

That said, what the hell, it’s your life so wear what you like. Just don’t whinge when somebody turns your saggy backside into a GIF and gets it trending on social media.

Eyesight

Eyesight naturally deteriorates with age. Over time the lens hardens and you struggle to focus. You’re permanently squinting and find yourself holding everything at arm’s length, including your kids. You can’t thread needles anymore and you have to ask your family to read the small print on food packaging or you run the risk of giving them the shits.

You also have your Kindle font on size ENORMOUS.

So, you book an appointment at your local opticians for an eye-test and end up with a pair of specs (two in my case) that will cost you the same price as a week in Barbados, depending on what extras they con you into. However, the good thing about blurry eyesight is the instant soft focus you get without your specs on. YOU DON’T LOOK AS CRAP IN THE MIRROR!

Gimme a high-five!

Feet

Feet, like everything else, change with age. The changes in our feet are largely due to good old gravity and the pounding that they take over years.

The result is more hoof, than foot.

Corns, bunions, deformities, flat and calloused feet are par for the course when it comes to feet unless you REALLY look after them but most people will succumb to at least one of these things after decades of stuffing their foot neglect.

It’s safe to say that my own feet have hit their fugly stage. Boo. 😦

However, it’s my own fault because my idea of a pedicure is to cock my feet over the loo twice a month to cut my nails. No filing them or shaving the balls of my feet with a pumice stone/Black and Decker belt sander, depending on what state the skin is in.

When it comes to shoes, the mid-life woman is more into Pavers than six-inch stilettos and men naturally gravitate towards trainers, slip-ons and sandals. The problem is when they wear sandals with SOCKS to hide their ingrowing toe-nails. To such an offender, my advice is this:

Mate, you look a div. No human over the age of 5 should wear socks with sandals. Lose the socks OR the sandals. You’re welcome.

Hairy toes?

Don’t start me.

Farting

Two thirds of menopausal women report an increase in farting. Fact.

Being post-menopausal, I can vouch for this. I’m definitely more flatulent than before my ovaries pensioned themselves off. Some experts say it’s due to lack of oestrogen, while others say it’s due to an ageing digestive system. It’s not just women though, as middle-aged men are more prone to ‘bottom-blasting’ too.

We literally become old farts.

My theory is that when we reach middle age, most of us will have had some kind of health scare requiring a radical diet change, usually to include more fruit and veg. Combine an increase of fiber with a digestive system that’s buggered from years of trying to digest junk food and you basically start farting yourself into a coma. Am I wrong?

Growing old is a privilege, so we should be grateful that we’ve got this far. However, we can still have a laugh at ourselves, eh? Laughing is what keeps us young inside..

“…inside every old person is a young person wondering what happened.” Terry Pratchett – Moving Pictures

Creative Commons Images Via Pixabay

 

 

Summertime Blues

On the day I was born THIS was number one in the Top 40.

“Have a drink, have a drive”

Have a crash?

Side-burns and demijohn as a percussion instrument aside, it is a catchy tune, but I’d rather have hung on in there for a few more weeks and slithered out to Elvis Presley’s The Wonder of You. Then again, it could have been Tom Jones’ Daughter of Darkness, which some light say, would have been more apt.

It was summer. The days were long. The jeans were flared and summers seemed to go on FOREVER, as happens when you’re on child-time because child-time is different to real time. Everyone knows that, right?

The skies were bluer. The clouds puffier and the sun cracked the pavements EVERY SINGLE DAY!

Then there were family holidays..

I’m fairly sure we went away most years but I only remember a few holidays and judging by sulky chops on most of the photographs, i.e. me, I can only imagine that I was my usual shit self during each and every one of them. I can only apologise to my parents who no doubt sacrificed all year in order to give us a nice holiday. If they were alive today, my autism diagnosis would maybe go some way to explain my behaviour…

I tried hard to enjoy holidays but being in unfamiliar places (and sleeping in strange beds) sent my anxiety orbital. The beds often smelled funny and had, er, unidentifiable stains, and at that time my olfactory sensitivities were monumental. Also, I couldn’t verbalise my problems so this reflected in my behaviour. I was either ‘showing off’, ‘naughty’ or ‘moody’. Moody, I’ll hold my hand up to but I wasn’t ever intentionally naughty and I was too introverted to ‘show off’. What I was, was overwhelmed…

It also pissed me off how flies used to do that circles round the light fittings. Why do they do that? Daddy Long Legs were much bigger when I was a child. They. Were. HUGE. Spiders were the size of COWS and the world was against me in general. Despite all this, I was supposed to enjoy myself?

Sometimes we stayed in B & B’s. I HATED that. It was bad enough being in a strange place with my own family without having to cope with being around strange people too? Strange sociable people who really annoyed me with their constant, “Are you going to give me a smile?’

No. Eff off.

I didn’t say the F word, obvs, as Mum would have ended my life, but I certainly thought it. Why couldn’t they understand that I looked miserable because I FELT miserable?

Then there were the days out..

If I was lucky there would be a plan and I’d know where I was going (sort of) but more often than not Mum and Dad did the ‘spontaneous thing’ which cremated my brain. The result?

This.

Beach days were the worst.

What child doesn’t like the beach?

Me.

I like it now (when it’s empty) but not then. Never then..

I considered it a breach of my human rights to be made to take my clothes off on a beach in front of strangers.

“Who do you think’s looking at you?!”

Well, I don’t know, Mother, perverts perhaps?

To be fair, most children stripped off without a care in the world but I wasn’t like them was I? I was a self-aware misfit. I refused to remove so much as a sock without Mum standing in front of me with the biggest bath towel we had and even then I tried to keep my knickers on under my bikini bottoms. Yes, I was that girl.

One bikini in particular stands out in my memory. I was about 4 or 5 but it was way too big for me. In those days, you had to grow into stuff so nothing fitted. The top was more like a scarf and the bottoms were saggy-arsed which was dead amusing, apparently. The relief when I was upgraded to a swimsuit was IMMENSE!

The whole beach experience was an onslaught to the senses. The smells. The noise. The stimuli..

We had a little Calour Gas stove and I liked the smell of the gas. Possibly inhaled more than what was healthy for me, though. Then there was Ambre Solaire which Mum and Dad slavered over themselves. They’d sit and sizzle in their deck-chairs, havin’ a smoke and drinking countless cups of tea and be in some kind of heaven while me and my brother whinged like buggery – him because he was stuck with his moody little sister and me because I wanted to be sand free and back HOME with my Enid Blyton’s.

I feel guilty about it now because Mum and Dad worked hard to keep us fed, clothed and living in a nice clean home. They deserved a nice holiday but I always managed to spoil it for them, not that it was EVER deliberate.

When it comes to weather – THAT summer of 76 overrules all other summers in my entire memory.

In the Summer of 76, the average house cost £12,704. Wages were about £72 p/w (in those days they came home via a brown envelope) and a loaf of bread cost 19 pence. 19p!!! You could get a huge bag of sweets for like 5p. Imagine that, Kids?!

It was, like, SOOOOOOOO hot, the tarmac on the roads melted. Google it!

Chopper bikes, Space Hoppers, Quosh (warm), water shortages, IRA bombings, unemployment, flares, platform shoes, white dog poo, really great music, really shite music, melty roads and deviant DJs. The 70’s had the lot. I don’t remember the serious stuff because I was just a kid. What I do remember is how uncomfortable I felt in general. Summer is supposed to be fun but it’s not that simple for sensitive souls is it? Plus, I have to remove my cardi, which is like asking an NT to remove a kidney.

Dare I say, roll on Autumn?

“Summer will end soon enough, and childhood as well.”~ George R.R Martin ~ Game of Thrones