Anne Dickens | The Day After Yesterday

Blimey, my darling (but not so little) Izzy turned 6 today! She has had a party and everything, but unfortunately, I haven't got time to post about it today.

The reason is that loads of things have bombarded me workwise.

Allow me to elucidate. Try and picture me - wearing a karate suit - and fending off emails (KERPOW) ...... Skype calls (WHAM) and ............  texts (SPLAT).

And if that wasn't enough, tomorrow I am off to Somerset for two days, to help my chum, Poops Cooper, with his house renovations.

So I may be a bit incommunicado for a couple of days.

Don't be lonely!


P.S. What are you up to this week?


Tell me what you think by leaving me a comment otherwise you will have a wardrobe malfunction in an important meeting

I don't know about you, but I completely dislike doing chores around the house.

So most of the time, I make like an Emu (big chickeny thing), and bury my head in the sand until I can't ignore them any longer - generally because they end up hindering my passage. 

Take last weekend as the point in case. I had decided to spend a chilled Saturday sitting in the garden with my computer, catching up with your blogs, and reading about current affairs.

But once outside, I noticed this ........................


Yep, it soon became apparent that my lawn was not as manicured as I first thought. In fact if I had photo-shopped a camouflage helmet and sniper's rifle onto Naughty George, you could easily be forgiven for thinking that he was on active service in the Borneo.

Anyway, suffice to say, it took me THREE bloody hours to cut the desolate scrubland lawn at the back of my house, and at least four passers-by cheerily shouted to me; "you've missed a bit!", pointing to the 'bit' with gusto. Bloody gits.

As if that wasn't enough, it was a really humid day so I spent the entire three hours sweating glowing like a pig.

But, you will be pleased to know, one good thing did come out of the whole palaver; yep, I finished my gardening in time to attend a '70s night Extravaganza' that was being held in a neighbouring village to raise funds for the local school.

Oh my gosh, my London house was only sold last week, and the country is already eating me up - I am chewing straw (ok that was an embellishment), and hanging out in fields like a bumpkin. Don't believe me?

Have a look here .................. the event really was held in a field .................... I felt like a goat, except that I probably eat more crap.










So dahlink, that was my weekend of country living. What the devil have you been up to?



Tell me what you think by leaving me a comment otherwise the next time you cook rice, it will go all sticky.

You will be very glad to hear that when Izzy got up this morning, she had got over her little wobble yesterday (about our London house being sold). And there was a good reason; today was the day of her school 'Sports Day'.

The Sports Day is my all-time favourite annual event to be held at the school; and it is made even better because the new Headmistress (who embarked upon her role this year) is marvellous. 


Now being a bit of a competitive type, I'd already had a previous telephone conversation with Izzy's Dad about possible preparations for the big day.

"Maybe we should get her to do a bit of circuit training - you know, squat thrusts and scaling big walls?" I suggested to him.

"It's a bit much don't you think?" he responded.

"How about buying her a lycra running suit and spikes then?"

"Her friends will laugh at her because they will all be wearing plimsolls and shorts," he replied.

"Well is there a kiddie equivalent of steroids then?" I asked.

"She is five for chrissake, and steroids are illegal anyway," he sighed, and I could almost hear him shaking his head into the receiver.

"How was I to know?" I asked incredulously. 

So, all avenues of preparation had been eliminated and the only thing that I could do, was give Izzy a pep talk in the car on the way to school.

"Are you looking forward to Sports Day?" I asked her.

"Yep," she replied.

"Good. You do know that it is all about the winning rather than the taking part?" I said.

"I am not bothered about winning," she responded.

"WHAT?" I asked in a horrified manner.

"We don't get prizes if we win," she stated, matter-of-factly.

I pondered what she had said, and she did have a valid point. But I couldn't leave it there, because it is my responsibility as a parent to try and prevent her from being mercenary, and to instil a moral compass: "You should want to do the best you can out of pride," I stated, pretty chuffed with my answer.

"I would rather have cash," she said, getting out of the car because we had arrived at the school. I actually quite admired her entrepreneurial spirit.

"Ok, I will give you cash if you win," I resolved.

"How much?" she asked.

"10p," I replied.

"Ok," she grinned and made me do a 'pinky promise' to seal the deal.

After dropping Izzy off with her classmates and teacher, I made my way down to the sports pitch, and along the way I bumped into my lovely chum, Sam, whose daughter (Honey) was also competing in the games.

"Have you helped Izzy to prepare?" Sam asked me.

"Damn right," I said, "I have offered her cash. What about you?"

"I have told Honey to pretend that she is being chased by a dog," Sam said.

"Bloody ingenious," I nodded with approval.

And so the sports day commenced ..........

So how did they do?

Well, Izzy won all three of her races and Honey won two of hers. So, if (for fun) you combine the two girls' performance, that is an 83.33% (recurring) success rate. Admirable by any standards.

Which got me thinking - next year - I might suggest to the Headmistress of the school that they get the Bookies in. Just imagine how exciting it would be if we could place bets on the kids we think will win. I reckon I would have won £350 by simply betting on Izzy and Honey alone.



So, it appeared as though I had a bit of an athlete on my hands, and I was over the moon for her. After all the games had finished, I rushed into the classroom where she was supposed to be removing her PE kit and changing back into her school uniform. I spied her in a corner, in a state of half-undress, and picked her up in my arms and swung her around.

"I am sooooooo proud of you," I grinned at her.

She grinned back, and said, "Please can I have my 10p now?"

That's my girl.

P.S. What 'pushy parent' stuff do you get up to? (it's got to be better than kiddie steroids)


Tell me what you think by leaving me a comment otherwise a leg will fall off your chair and you will fall sideways in an ungainly fashion.

Bloody hell, I am more exhausted than a sloth. This week has been the mother of all weeks.

'What the blazes are you talking about you lazy dingbat?' I hear you cry.

Well, it's like this. Not only has work been more than full on, i.e. my 'to do' list is getting longer by the day rather than shorter (even though I am working flat-out), but I also completed the sale on my London house today. In short, completed means that I finally received the money from the buyer, and in turn, I had to give her the keys to the house.

The trouble was, that handing over the keys involved me driving to London this afternoon. Bummer to the power three. So despite the fact that everything was kicking off at work, I had to jump in my jalopy and splutter my way down to the Big Smoke.


But every cloud has a silver lining. And in my case, it happened when I arrived at the house to meet the buyer, Mrs Hashimoto. Not five minutes after stepping foot in the house, I discovered that she had brought a fine Bollinger in order to toast the sale. Kerching! So after quaffing champagne (but not too much because I was driving), and giving her a tour of the house, I finally presented her with the keys and wished her 'good luck' before saying my goodbyes.

I took one last backwards look at the house and then drove away. I honestly expected it to be more of a wrench than it was: Izzy was born there, I had a happy time there, and I loved the house and London in general. But I think that I had managed to come to terms with all that as the sale progressed.

What did surprise me somewhat was Izzy's reaction when I got back home. As I was chatting to her in the bath this evening, I told her that the London house was now sold to another family.

Without warning, her eyes filled with tears, and she started crying.

"What's the matter sweetheart?" I asked her.

"I miss my bedroom, and I miss the garden, and I miss that you, me and Daddy all lived together," she sobbed.

Crikey, I was totally backfooted. It was two and a half years since we had moved from London to Oxford and I didn't realise that the move, and the subsequent split between me and her dad, had remained in her memory so long.

I consoled her, but she remained quite upset about it even after I had put her to bed.

Then once she was asleep I went and looked at some old photographs of her when we lived in London.






In all of the pictures she looked happy so I can understand the wrench. But having said that, she is also happy in Oxford because she has all her friends. Still, it was a bit of a toughy today.

Anyway, enough of that sentimental stuff, all I really require is a bit of sympathy .... or maybe some cash donations. They would all be put to a good cause .... a Bolly fund!

So dahlink, do you have any memories of moving house?


Tell me what you think by leaving me a comment otherwise your best top will be attacked by moths

Blimey, last weekend was a bit of a whirlwind. As an ex-colleague of mine used to say, 'I haven't had time to fart.' He didn't have much luck with the ladies, but then again, as you have probably gathered, he wasn't exactly a juggernaut of etiquette.

Anyway, I digress. Last weekend I went 'oop north' to visit my cousin Jane in Loughborough. I wouldn't normally recommend going 'oop north' because, (1) it is cold; (2) everyone speaks with a funny accent; and (3) sourcing Pimms or champers is a logistical nightmare because Northerners only drink Moonshine.

Nevertheless - because we are stoical - me, Izzy and Naughty George jumped into my jalopy on Saturday morning and headed north, billowing out small black smoke clouds as we chugged along.

Once in Loughborough, we had a rigorous schedule: Shopping for Father's Day in the afternoon, and then Jane and I had planned on going out to see a Rhythm and Blues band in the evening.

Luckily, we got the shopping out the of the way fairly quickly because I am not a fan of it. In fact given a choice, I would rather drink sump oil than traipse around heaving shops. Actually, there are two exceptions to that - car and gadget shopping. I don't mind shopping for things that I can tinker with.

Enough of the shopping milarky. Suffice to say we got it over and done with, and then had time to chill in the garden for a couple of hours before heading out. 













So with the weekend drawing to a close, all I had to do was hotfoot it back to Oxford for a Father's Day meal. Yep, me and Izzy had arranged to take her dad out for a meal to celebrate. But more of that to follow........ (as you can tell, I am a bit behind with my posts. Oops)

What the blazes have you been up to last weekend, dahlink?


Tell me what you think by leaving me a comment otherwise a spider will drop in your mouth whilst you are sleeping

I tell you what - looking at the weather, it could be winter here at the moment. It's a bloody travesty and it nearly made me get Seasonal Affective Disorder. Good job that I am made of sterner stuff, or else I would be perishing all over the place.

Two months ago, we had a hot spell for three whole weeks where temperature's soared to 30 degrees Celsius (86 degrees Fahrenheit) every day, and it was bloody marvellous.


But alas, since then, the weather has consisted of cloud / rain / cloud / rain in a never-ending perpetual bloody cycle. So instead of quaffing Pimms and Lemonade in the late evening sunshine, I am faced with this .......







Due to the weather confining me to the house today, I decided to take the unusual step of doing some housework. I have a simple check when it comes to whether or not housework needs doing: I survey the place, and if I can write 'housework is shit' in the dust, I drag my hoover and cloths out of hibernation.

Because I am slovenly and had left it so long, it took me four bloody hours to clean the house today. It was total pants. Cleaning is such a waste of life. It is like building a card-tower, knocking it down, and then rebuilding it .... ad infinitum.

That is one of the reasons why Quentin Crisp is one of my all-time favourite heroes. He once said, "there is no need to do any housework at all. After the first four years the dirt doesn't get any worse." I might consider giving that one a go.


So tell me, how do you approach the task of cleaning?


Tell me what you think by leaving me a comment otherwise you will accidentally forget to do up your fly next time you go to the toilet, and strangers will point and laugh

I've been bloody tardy with my blog posts over the last few days, I have. And what's worse, is that I have been rubbish at visiting your blog for which I apologise.

But I have good reason. For the last two weeks, everything has kicked off and I am working a million hours a day ......... All of a sudden, the new business is coming together (and I am spending most of my days talking to lawyers, agents, and banks), and the sale of my London house was finalised after a last minute push.

Yep, you heard me right dahlink! Yesterday, contracts were exchanged on my London house, meaning that even if I wanted to change my mind, I couldn't.



Bloody hell. You know what that means don't you? I am now formally stuck in the Oxfordshire countryside. No more bright lights and big city for me. I have been consigned to living alongside cows and sheep, and eating things that would make a billy goat puke. As if that wasn't bad enough, the air constantly smells of horse's arse. I am blending right in .............

AAAH! Call me Bumpkin Dickens, and throw me a carrot.

Naughty George didn't seem to mind that the countryside 'arrangement' had become permanent. Whilst I was walking him today, he took a celebratory bite out of a cow-pat, and then spent the next five minutes chewing it contentedly. The filthy wombat. It made me gag watching him. It's a good job he hasn't got a girlfriend, because he wouldn't be seeing tongue action any time soon.

On a related note (related to Naughty George, not the countryside), I received a comedy email this week from Mike Peckett (a new visitor round here). If you want to visit his blog, click here with your lil ol' mouse - he is from Oxford too and is a marvellous photographer (opens in a new window).

Mike wrote (something along the lines of), "bloody hell, Naughty George looks exactly like my ex-dog (deceased), Diz." And he attached a picture to prove the point ........



How uncanny is that? At first, it made me laugh my head off. And then I considered the prospect of two identical Naughty George's running around, and I blanched somewhat.

I forgot to ask Mike if Diz was a bastard like Naughty George, but I am sure I will have an opportunity soon because Mike has asked if he can photograph my dog. That'll make a good post.

So how is your week going dahlink?


Tell me what you think by leaving me a comment otherwise you will get your finger stuck in a small hole

I don't know quite how it happened, but last weekend I accidentally got roped into doing 'manual work' with my hands. Ugh.

"What the blazes are you going on about, you daft wombat?" I hear you cry.

Well, it's like this. One of my best friends from my University days - Andy 'Poops' Cooper (say it quickly to get the gag) - had bought a house at auction, and it needed some work doing before he imminently moved in with his girlfriend and son. When I say work, I mean that everything in the entire house needed to be rebuilt, except for the four walls that were holding the roof on. 

I remember having a telephone conversation with Poops a couple of weeks ago. I was oooohing and aaaaahing in all the right places as I listened to his house woes, and then all of a sudden, without me actually saying anything, Poops was thanking me for the offer of help. 

"Hang on a minute! You want me to make like a navvy and do manual work?" I asked incredulously, "next you will be expecting me to wear sack-cloth."

"Of course," he replied, "you're an engineer, and even though you're a mutt, you can be pretty handy when it comes to renovating stuff."

"Maybe so, but I am now at the stage of my life where I pay serfs to do that for me," I said, screwing up my nose.

And then Poops delivered the killer blow: "Remember when I came and helped you renovate your London house?"

GIT. And that is the reason why I found myself driving down to Somerset for the weekend.

And here are the photographs of the goings on ...................



Anyway, enough of that 'old stuff' milarky. I finally arrived in Somerton (the village where Poops house is) at 11.30am and we said our 'hello's. 

But instead of showing me his house, Poops immediately suggested that we grab some lunch before starting work. And I know why. He was lulling me into a false sense of security before shooting the poisoned dart.

His plan was to walk into the centre of the village and grab something to eat from the butchers. And so we did, and I even remembered my camera so that I could get some photographs for you. 





Lunch consisted of a £1.50 Cornish Pasty (Poops knows how to spoil a lady), and by the time we had walked back to the house, I had eaten it and was ready to go. 

Before you read the rest of this post, I should tell you that Poops hates having his photograph taken. But the problem is, I like taking pictures for you to look at. So the whole weekend was like a big cat and mouse game - I would hide in cupboards and jump out at him with my camera, and he would shake his fist and curse at me.

Anyway, back to the house. You know that I mentioned a 'poisoned dart'? Well it hit me right between the eyes when we got back to the house and I surveyed the work that needed doing.

"It's a bloody building site!" I exclaimed.

"Which is exactly why I needed your gracious help," replied Poops.

So here goes ........ photographs of manual work ...................










And if that wasn't enough gluttony, after dinner we went to a really marvellous pub called 'The Halfway House' in the village of Somerton, in order to meet up with Poops' girlfriend, Chris.



After a couple of beers, we all left the pub in order to retire to bed. But before I made it, there was one more shock to the system to endure. Poops told me that we needed to get up at 7.30am the next morning in order to recommence work on his house at 8.30am. On a Sunday no less.

So I set my alarm for 7.30am and when it went off, I nearly perished with shock. If it wasn't for my strength of character, I would be six feet under by now.

Suffice to say, I put in another full day's work and didn't get back to Oxford until 8pm. And bizarrely, every muscle in my body was aching. Who would have thought that DIY was so taxing?

P.S. So what did you get up to this weekend dahlink?


Tell me what you think by leaving me a comment otherwise you will find a hair in the butter on your toast