Old Timers Disease?

You know, I’ve now entered my fortieth year. My birthday isn’t until July but this is it, this is the year I turn forty (and life, allegedly, begins – although if the bit I’ve been doing for the last 39 years isn’t ‘life’ then god help me!).

My mother ‘retired’ just past forty. Not just from work, but practically from life. She decided to become Professionally Helpless. You know the type – “Could you just come over and do XYZ because as you know I don’t really understand all that..” When it seemed that we might not allow her to become helpless, that we might actually insist she was still perfectly capable of conducting her own life – well,  then she became Deliberately Inept. I would watch her failing to do things which I was quite certain she’d been capable of the previous day, and which I was quite certain she was still able to do perfectly adequately. This frustrated the hell out of me!

So why, having lived through this and been frustrated by it, am I catching myself doing the same thing to my two offshoots?

“TMBK, I’m so glad you’re home, the curtain pole needs adjusting and as you know I can’t do it…”

“Stiiii-iiig! Stig! Just run upstairs and get me X, Y, Z, please? I’m…busy… and can’t go myself”..

I was not busy! I was sitting on my fat arse trying to look busy so as not to have to go myself! And I am more than capable of adjusting the damn curtain pole.

It’s basically laziness, isn’t it? Must stop that.

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In other news, I’m about to remodel my website and hopefully get some new pics taken. Watch this space…

Goodbye, 2012!

Jeez, it’s been an arse of a year!

At the time of writing 2012 is set to be the wettest year on record and oh BOY! have I felt it! At times it’s seemed like every drop of that rain has slid down my window panes and I really don’t do that well without sunshine. Around mid-November I started to take a ‘sunshine vitamin’ and I do think it helped to lift my mood a bit, things have been looking up since then.

So, with the new year stretching ahead, full of possibility, I looked at my life and though ‘what should I change?’. The answer came to me very quickly – ‘Enough of this Punternet Moderating stuff already!’

I’ve been a Pnet mod for several years, and I believe I’m justified in saying I have achieved the dizzy heights of  ‘Least Popular Female Moderator In the World’ – or at least in the UK sex scene. Ach, you know what, I can live with that. I’d have preferred the overall title but I think Ghenghis still has that one in his trophy room.

So –  so long, mod boots! I’ll go back to being just an ‘ordinary’ poster and try not to get banned too quickly.

And bring on 2013! I’m looking forward to seeing some of my lovely chaps (some of whom I haven’t seen for FAR TOO LONG, you know who you are!) and to meeting some lovely new chaps too. See you in the New Year!

Happy Birthday …

Happy Birthday to me!

Yes, another year has passed, and today I hit 39.

This means that I have 364 days left of telling people ‘I’m in my thirties’; which I’m sure you all know means ‘young’. From 24th July next year, I shall have start telling people ‘Just turned forty’ and watch as they start checking me out for Clarks’ sandals and comfy cardies (by the way, Amanda has a pair of Clarks’ sandals. Just sayin’.). Of course, I could always do what my Uncle John did – he went from thirty-nine to thirty-ten, thirty-eleven, thirty-twelve….

I’ve had a splendiferous day, though. After a brief visit from my parents (during which they told me I was going to die young) we went out (Self, Amanda, Stig, Friend of Stig and Mr Fish the boy-next-door) to the seaside for the day. When I say seaside I should confess that I mean Weston-Super-Mare, and that as Amanda pointed out, even once we were parked on the beach we were most decidedly NOT beside the sea. The sea was about twenty miles out and seemed to be heading for the shores of North America at a fair old lick.

But we sat on the beach and fried our little brains for a bit, then we had an ice-cream, then we buried the boy-next-door in the sand. We had to dig him up again though ‘cos he was complaining that his bollocks were going numb in the cold sand.

Then we had chips, walked a million miles back along the prom to where we had parked the car (which incidentally was practically in the next county), and came home to de-sand. That stuff gets EVERYWHERE.

I’ve never been so knackered in my life! How on earth do all the little old dinks manage? They’re always to be seen pottering up and down the seafront, and they seem to thrive on it – Amanda and I look like a pair of used dishcloths this evening!

Anyway, thankyou to all the lovely chaps and chapettes who sent me birthday wishes, I’m off to update the age on my website before I get accused of false advertising!

*Sigh*

A message to the FOOL who attempted to join UKP today in ‘my’ name.

You took a name from the photos on my website, didn’t you? You saw that they were labelled ‘Deb Stacey 1, Deb Stacey 2’ etc, and you thought ‘Oooh, Claire’s real name is Deb Stacey, I will join UKP with that as my username and cause some trouble!’

Pillock.

Firstly, the rejection email came to me, so I could see what you did, and secondly, Deb Stacey is the name of the photographer who took the pictures.

Crawl back under your stone, silly person.

Off to the ‘pool!

No, I don’t intending scaring small children and amusing lifeguards with the sight of me in my swimsuit at the local Lido – I mean that I’m off to Liverpool for a couple of days.

Yes, I’ll be in a nice centrally located apartment on Friday 15th and Saturday 16th June and would love to get my hands on some of the locals. So if you think you can handle me, let me know – my availability is already quite limited so get in quick!

See you soon!

Kony2012

Now that’s what I call… Art.

Wanna see something pretty?

 

Isn’t that just the most stunning thing you’ve ever seen? You can keep the Mona Lisa, Tracy Emin’s bed and everything Jackson Pollock ever brought out of the depths of his nightmares – this, my friends, is Art.

I’m not providing a link though because it costs a STUPID sum of money!

Happy Valentine’s Day for tomorrow, folks x

 

 

 

 

 

“The dirtiest, most disgusting females on the planet…”

That, boys and girls, is what a ‘gentleman’ hiding behind the moniker of “sucky2dollar” thinks we hookers are.

THE DIRTIEST, MOST DISGUSTING FEMALES ON THE PLANET.

When you decide to become a prostitute, you accept that some elements of the population will hold that view. You might perhaps expect it from a member of a fundamentalist religion, or an extreme feminist maybe. You become inured to it when it comes from ‘outside’ – from persons not associated with or involved in the sex industry. You harden, grow a thicker skin, and accept that some people may hold those views because of a fundamental lack of understanding. They are unable to empathise or accept, because our experiences and values are so far divorced from their own as to be unimaginable.

But when that view is expressed by ‘our man on the inside’ – by one of the very men to whom we provide our services, by a ‘punter’ – it shocks in a way that the outsider could never do. If he can feel that way and yet still seek services, what does that say for punters? It makes you wonder if he is more typical than you think, if he’s actually making a representative statement of what all clients  really think, deep down.

And then you say ‘No, of course not, I’m just being silly, and he’s made this comment on a public forum, frequented by many other men who visit hookers. So he’ll get shouted down, right?’. Well yes, by a couple of people. One or two men who were brave enough to stand apart from the flock and say ‘No, you don’t speak for me, I don’t like what you said there’. But just a few, out of hundreds who use that forum (if we are to believe the stats espoused by their leader, at any rate).

So let me just send a message out to the rest of the users of that forum.

Every time you read and run, every time you fail to correct, every time you don’t argue with those extreme views – well , you may as well have openly agreed. Don’t ask in future why the mud sticks, because this is why. If you don’t voice your own opinions, you’ll get someone else’s attributed to you. That’s why it matters which gang you decide to follow.

You know, I thought long and hard before writing this blog post. On the one hand, I don’t particularly want to gratify the originator of the quote used as my title today, and I do see that by rising to the bait I will brighten his small world considerably.

But sometimes , you can’t rise above this stuff. Sometimes, you can’t turn the other cheek, because your silence can be as much permission for these people to continue as anything else.

A very quick message…

… to the person who has been trying to telephone me this morning.

I do not answer with-held numbers on my work phone. Calling me eleventy-thousand times between 8am and 11am will not change that!

Have a nice day now, y’all.

Bruised, but not beaten…

I took the dogs out yesterday morning, as I do every day.  It was a soggy day, but the dogs don’t give a monkey’s chuff about such trifles and plough quite happily through the marshiest bits they can find. Within about three minutes Daft Dog was brown from head to toe, and the only speck of white I could see were his eyes as he galloped towards me intent on planting his paws as firmly as he could onto my thighs. Thank god it wasn’t Mad Dog though, ‘cos she’s a foot taller and although this means she doesn’t get quite as mucky as the little ‘un, it also means her paws catch you firmly in the midriff and you collapse into the mud like a sack of sh*t!

Anyhoo, I managed to dodge the incoming Furry Mud Missile and proceeded in a nor-nor-westerly direction ( I don’t know if that’s true by the way), with Mad Dog prancing merrily in front of me waiting for me to throw her ball for her. Now, as I have the body of a weak and feeble woman (albeit one who ate all the pies), I’m not much of a bowler, so I have one of these ball-throwy-thingies so that Mad Dog gets enough exercise. Also, as I’m a girl, I throw underarm.

So I draw the arm back behind me,  and I swing the ball-throwy-thingie forward with as much force as I can muster. And on the forward swing, it gets caught in my dangly dog-walking-cardigan pocket (so glamorous, you can’t even imagine) in which resides my stupidly large bunch of doorkeys. The doorkeys join in the general upward swoop and don’t stop until they connect quite firmly with the corner of my right eye, and for a few moments I absent myself from the world around me whilst I try to work out

1. Who the very feck I am;
2. What just happened, and above all;
3.  Am I brave enough to put my hand up and find out if  I’m bleeding to death?

Dear Reader, you’ll be glad to know (depending who you are of course) I wasn’t, and didn’t, bleed to death. I do have a rather fetching bruise though, which I can’t quite cover with makeup. Super.