Just a suggestion…

Posted by dulwichmum on Tue 20 March 2012

I would be delighted to suggest a suitable route for the Olympic Torch. In fact, someone just did, on Tessa Jowel’s Facebook page. Isn’t social media a hoot!

Ah yes! The NHS and our entire infrastructure is about to be privatised, education is about to become the domain of the rich (smug face) again, and we are supposed to give a rat’s corpse about lots of drug infused muscle bound half wits chasing eachother about and throwing pointy implements in a field.

Lets spend stacks of cash on bunting! Clearly!

(4 votes, average: 5 out of 5)

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Relative

Posted by dulwichmum on Sat 17 March 2012

When I first came to live in London, I contacted an uncle, a long lost younger brother of my father, who had not been in contact with our family for over a decade. It seemed safer to come to stay with him in this big city than to live in halls – I am sure you would have agreed at the time, it seemed infinitely sensible.

My father had passed away before I reached my teens, I was curious to meet this glamorous young uncle, to see if he looked like my father. Tim seemed full of fun; he had a voluptuous wife, two little children and an enormous dog. Soon after I arrived, the dog got sick. Tim cried great wet tears and carried the dog to the vet in his arms. I was touched.

Tim returned from the vet in an extreme state of distress. Prince was very sick indeed. The vet wanted to “put my Princey to sleep”. Tim fled from the vet’s office to seek calm and consolation at his home in the arms of his wife.

After a short while, the vet telephoned to seek permission to euthanize the beloved pet. Initially, Tim sobbed, “Everything is to be done to keep Princey alive”, then – shrieking “Exorbitant! Are you sure?” to “How much will it cost to put the dog down”, and eventually “What’s to stop me killing the mutt myself?”

I remember clearly, the woman who was married to Tim at the time, relating to me, how very sensitive Uncle Tim was – she claimed he had taken the entire day off work when my father died. “He phoned in sick and lay on the kitchen floor. Right there, on the tumbled marble tiles, in front of the Miele dishwasher – to the left of the waste disposal unit and he cried like a baby all day… I will never forget it. That was the day I went into labour with our son Clint. E’s so very sensitive, my Timmy,” she added, in her irritating nasal whine.

“When Elvis died, the following year, he was confined to his bed for a week! Oh yes, I was carrying our daughter at the time, he insisted we named her Priscilla!”

Why am I telling you this?

Apparently Kate Middleton’s cousin is rather a character…