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.

This is Bristol. My hometown, and has been since I was four. Some nights when I’ve been out of town, and drive back into the city, along the Portway or up the A38, I see it all laid out in front of me and am filled with such pride. It’s a fantastic place to live, so much on offer and so much history and heritage combined with forward-thinking and new development. Watching the lights of the city come into view brings this feeling of such immense potential, and gives me a sense of wellbeing and at-home-ness that I find difficult to put into words. I am proud of Bristol, proud to be Bristolian, complete with “oo-arr” accent.

Or at least, most of the time. There are times when Bristol is represented in such a way that one could almost hang one’s head in shame. When you switch on ITV and find four people in grubby tracksuits being harangued by Jeremy Kyle because two of them have produced a baby and none of them are sure which two it was, for example. And then they open their mouths and you realise they’re Bristolians AGAIN. That’s not so good.

But it pales into insignificance when compared with the sight that greeted me when I visited one of my regular chaps last night. He’s young, and sweet-natured, and mild-mannered, and life has thrown some sh*t at him and I’ve watched him deal with that and grow through it, fighting his demons all the way. He’s also Indian, and on Friday night in a kebab shop somewhere in this city, a complete twat punched him in the face and broke his nose, because of the colour of his skin.

I feel so angered, frustrated, rage-filled over this. This guy moved to Bristol from London a couple of years back and loves this city. He’s full of praise for Bristol and I feel so ashamed that he’s been treated this way. Of course racism isn’t solely a Bristol issue, I’m not stupid. But I’m so lost as to how in this day and age anyone can verbally abuse a stranger without provocation, and when they try to turn away, can hit them with such hatred and such force. And then leave, laughing, and go on with their life. I might meet that guy. He could be a client,  or the next plumber I call, or my bank manager –  and I would never know. That’s why my shame  extends to the whole of the city, because I can’t pinpoint it with any more accuracy.

I can’t speak for the people of Bristol, but for myself, I am so very sorry that you were treated this way, A.

This year I have been a very good girl   a moderately good girl  a somewhat good girl  very good at my job, and so if it’s not too much trouble I would like to find these things waiting for me at the end of my bed on Christmas morning, please thankyou;

1) A new Ford Fiesta in hot pink, with a  numberplate that reads  PRO5 SIE.

2) A year’s supply of Wispa bars. Please don’t underestimate my Wispa consumption capabilities, one Wispa a day will not be sufficient. I’d aim for about five a day if I were you.

3) A year’s supply of interestingly flavoured condoms. I’m bored with strawberry etc. I’m thinking Black Forest Gateau flavour, or perhaps Pork & Pickle pie? Again, don’t underestimate a year’s supply, I am a floozie after all.

4) An application for my phone that will call back all the people who ring me at 3 or 4am, and will play Cliff Richard’s Greatest Hits at them very loudly. Ideally, I’d like it to call them back at three minute intervals for the rest of their lives.

5) World peace, obviously. Can you fit that in a stocking?

Lots of love,

Claire.

PS:  In case you don’t remember me, thirty years ago I was the one with the pigtails who woke up and caught you putting the presents at the bottom of my bed.

PPS: Has anyone ever told you, you look just like my mum?

I know, it’s been a while. I have no excuses, I simply ran out of things to say.

I also went through one of the most grumpy phases of my Entire Life. I mean, really grumpy. Like all those women off that programme rolled into one, with added arsiness for luck. I had nothing nice to say, not just here but anywhere. I avoided people, especially new clients , as I simply couldnt trust myself to be friendly!

But I’m back, and I’ll try to be nice. No really I will.

And I will have things to say – watch this space!

Some of my readers may recall that my daughter’s nickname is ‘Stig’, because of the dump she laughably calls her bedroom. At any given time this room might be knee deep in a disgusting mulch of pens, papers, laundry, plates, crisp packets, pencil sharpenings, make-up, hair paraphenalia.. you name it, it’s in there somewhere. The room usually looks like the pictures you see of Mumbai rubbish mountains.

But no more! For this week, Stig has been away on holiday and while the brat’s away, the mother gets busy.

Yes, Stig’s Dump now looks like the ‘after’ pictures on ‘Sixty Minute Makeover’ – although it took a darned sight more than sixty minutes to achieve this transformation. In fact, it’s taken me four days!

With a little help from TMBK, I’ve wallpapered (that bit was me, TMBK can’t be trusted to put wallpaper up. His chosen adhesive for any job is duct tape), painted, moved shelves, hung new curtains, taken off a door, made a curtain to replace it, and laid a new carpet. The carpet part wasn’t meant to be happening, but I accepted the help of my pal’s very enthusiastic boyfriend on the painting side of things and the old carpet somehow got more paint on it than the walls did. All of the above to a soundtrack of yelps, squawks and squeaks as I balanced precariously on an antique stepladder, borrowed along with the pal’s boyfriend.

“Even though I says it as shouldn’t”, as my old granny used to say, the room looks amazing. A beautiful room for a young lady. I’m cherishing a faint hope that Stig, who is due back from her jaunt today, will see it and a blinding realisation will hit her that as she is now growing up, she needs to keep her space tidy.

That could happen, right? Right? Please?

What’s she blethering about now? I hear some of you ask. 

Daytime TV, that’s what – one of the perks (or drawbacks, if you prefer) of working from home. I have my daily viewing schedule, you know. In between bonks, I watch Ironside, then Poirot, then I suffer a couple of hours of Heartbeat and Monarch of the Glen before switching over for ‘Secret Dealers’. And that’s what my opening line referred to.

Have you seen ‘Secret Dealers’? Oh, it’s fab. You’d like it. It’s the most obviously staged ‘reality style’ show I’ve ever seen. The basic premise is that a trio of antique dealers (hand-picked for their ‘quirkiness’, obviously) get free rein to plunder some poor soul’s semi-detached in search of valuables, which they then place ‘secret’ bids on. The patsy is then told the bids and decides whether they want to part with Great Aunt Agatha’s silver plated denture case or hang onto it in the hopes that one day it’ll be worth enough to pay for their Saga Cruise.

Well, who’d credit it? These ordinary folk almost always turn out to have oodles of lovely antiques hanging around the place gathering dust – and they had no idea! They do a cracking job of looking surprised, I grant you – in fact, I strongly suspect that more than half the surprise is due to the fact that they’d never seen the item before it arrived  on the production company’s van that morning.

Cynical, moi? Maybe. All I know is that if they pitched up here and started rooting around in corners, all they’d find worth mentioning is enough dog hair to knit a king-size blanket – and the only antique in the place is me!

And I confess, I struggled to answer him. It started with a little spot of  ’Bloggers Block’, way back at the end of April. A few days passed, during which I couldn’t think of a thing to say. A few more, a week, two weeks, a month… and the longer the time went on, the less of a ‘habit’ my blogging became.

Additionally, as the time passed, the question of how to start again, seamlessly, without anyone noticing I’d lapsed became more and more  of an issue. Could I slip in round the back, as the bishop said to the actress? If I crept in when no-one was looking and just blogged as though I’d been here all along, complete with angelic expression, would I be able to fool the eagle-eyed reader? Of course not. The type of person who reads my blatherings would surely be of a frighteningly high  level of intelligence, possibly even Mensa material. They’d be onto me like a stray cat on a kipper.

And so, I chose the only option left – to march in with my head held high, my chin sticking out at an obstinate angle, and a belligerent ‘So? I’m here now, aren’t I?’

I’ll try to be good from now on, I promise.

It has become apparent to me, however, that the car is the window to the hidden depths of the personality.

Take my parents car, for example. They drive a Ford Fusion. My mother chose this car because “It’s a nice tidy shape”. Never mind engine size, fuel consumption, environmental impact, any of that business. A nice tidy shaped car, that’s what you need.

In the glovebox, should you venture to explore, you will find a packet of travel wipes, an A-Z of Rotherham (to the best of my knowledge they’ve never been there but it came with the car and my mother thought it might come in handy one day) and a small tin of what have always been referred to in our family as  ’Sucky Sweets’. That’s travel sweets to you. In the back seat of my parents car there is a cushion. Just one. They take the car through the Morrison’s car wash once a fortnight, carefully unscrewing the aerial each time, and my mother Hoovers the interior weekly. The car is spotless.

My car, on the other hand, is a battered Citroen Xsara (I call her Shitty Tara). I bought it because I needed a car in a hurry and it was within my price range. Shape was not a consideration, it could have been shaped like the Arc De Triomphe for all I cared as long as it was within budget. It has nasty scrapes on all four corner bumpers where things keep getting in my way.

If you were brave enough to open the glovebox you would be submerged beneath an avalanche of books, maps, used tissues, empty paracetamol packets and sachets of tomato ketchup – and a glove. Just one, I’m hoping the other will come home one day. In the back seat there are no cushions, which is just as well as the space which they would need is already occupied by several empty Pepsi Max bottles and three jackets. I take it through the Asda car wash once every six months, when the windscreen becomes obscured with grime because ‘the squirty’ ran out two months previously. I don’t unscrew the aerial because the radio doesn’t work anyway. I don’t Hoover it. The floor is a sea of crumbs.

One glance at my parents car would tell you that they are of a certain age, careful, conscientious and sensible.

One glance at mine would tell you I’m a bit… well, dirty

Now, normally I’d prefer to book a Premier Inn, partly ‘cos I like their colour scheme and partly ‘cos I’ve always admired Lenny Henry. But mainly because for about the same price as a Travelodge, give or take a quid or two, you get a bloody good bed and at least three towels.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not averse to a spot of luxury and have enjoyed some very snazzy hotel rooms over the years. But there’s a recession on, you know, and these are austere times.  So it’s budget hotels all the way –  and anyway, in this instance I wasn’t paying so was in no position to be fussy!

The first thing I noticed when checking in was the all-pervading smell of damp in the corridor. It was so strong I almost expected the carpet tiles to squelch under my feet! The second thing that reminded me that this was a budget hotel was the bed, which, when I dropped my bag on it, made a noise reminiscent of the sound of the Titanic hitting the iceberg; a kind of wood-splintering crack!

This was followed by the discovery that in their bathrooms, Travelodge have dispensed with such niceties as a tooth glass. Or even a tooth plastic tumbler. They’ve gone down yet another level, and now provide you with a white plastic cup like the ones I remember from the church fêtes I attended as a child – you know, the ones with over-diluted orange or lemon squash in them, which were almost impossible to drink from because if you squeezed them they split down the side and all your squash went over your Rainbow™ t-shirt…

The final insult was that when I got onto my plank of wood into my bed to get my much-needed beauty sleep, I discovered they’d taken one pillow, sliced it thinly lengthways and made three pillows out of it; and it plainly hadn’t been a very porky pillow to begin with.

During my teens, I remember feeling very irritated by my mother’s rule of taking her own pillow with her on any overnight trip.  After last night, I think I might be adopting this habit myself!

As long as I don’t start wearing socks with sandals, which is another of her tricks, I should be ok…

This morning, whilst performing the hitherto unremarkable feat of brushing my hair, I somehow managed to trap a nerve in my neck. This has resulted in my spending the entire day with a head that’s incapable of turning to the left unless accompanied by my entire upper body. This, in turn, has had the extremely unfortunate effect of making me want to talk like Stephen Hawking. I know, I know, it’s very childish.

There were benefits to my incapacitation, however. For example, I haven’t had to pick up anything I’ve dropped today. Have you any idea how many things you drop in a day and pick up without noticing? Ask my kids, they’ll tell you. It’s lots. After several hours of enduring my wheedling tone calling ‘Darling? Are you there? I’m sorry, I’ve dropped my pen/sock/custard tart again..’ they both buggered off out and left me. The result is that everything I’ve dropped since is still on the floor in an interesting scatter gun effect.

Another benefit was that instead of having to cut the hedge and grass myself, I was able to persuade my son to do it. I think he quite likes it really, since it involves power tools. This is the boy who once got so sick of the corner of his bedroom rug curling up that he screwed it down. Using a drill. Straight into the gas pipe that runs under his floorboard.

Now THAT was an interesting evening…