Hello Peeps! You’ll never guess what I’ve been up to?
I’ve been ‘doing’ Sydney, as the locals say. No, you silly things, I am not doing Saul’s friend, Sydney. Sydney, the city. In Australia. That’s right! And we are soon to board a plane for New Zealand.
We are going to watch some rugby. Saul is so excited. Strange how they get worked up watching other grown men play with their funny shaped balls, hey girls?
First, though, I must apologize for not writing sooner. But Saul, my boyfriend, and I are having such an adventure that truth be told the last thing on my mind was blogging.
Seems odd for a woman of my age to say boyfriend, but he makes me feel like a young girl once more so who cares! You are only as old as you feel. And thank goodness I don’t have to worry about feeling myself much these days. Nothing like a change of oil to encourage a girl to learn how to use a new dipstick am I right? 😉
Anyway, as we have an hour before our flight, and I am the proud owner of a new laptop that Saul bought me in Singapore, I thought I would write a few words just to let you all know I am alive and well.
So, what happened, you are wondering? Well, there I was, sitting at home with my grandson, Jeremy when Saul telephones to say we are going on holiday. He wouldn’t say where, at first, but I managed to wheedle it out of him because I needed to know what to pack. And men are so silly about these things aren’t they girls?
What’s more, Saul has sold his dental practice to his cousin Hymie and decided to retire.
So I get to have him all to myself!
So, our holiday destination? London!
When we arrived we drove straight to Claridges, Saul’s regular hotel when he’s in town.
That first night we had dinner with that Arab chappy who owns Harrods. He’s a personal friend of Saul’s. I never realised how many famous people Saul knows!
He says he used to be the Queen’s personal dentist although between us I found this a little hard to believe as I have it on good authority from my neighbour, Madge, that the Queen sends her teeth away to be treated, but Saul showed me a mug with the queen’s face on and it turns out that the queen is, in fact, the late Freddy Mercury. Shame, that poor boy!
Well, anyway, before I knew what was happening we were flying to Paris and after one night, we were whisked away to Cairo!
I have never seen so much sand in one place before. And I have been finding sand in my drawers ever since. It is amazing how the stuff just won’t come out, even after several turns in the washing machine.
Which brings me nicely to the topic of hygiene.
Before we left for the airport this morning I had rather a strange call at our hotel.
The lady caller, who had obviously got the wrong number, announced herself by saying “Hi, Jean, this is Ros.”
When I said she must have the wrong number she enquired if this was not the local fanny.
Somewhat taken aback, thinking this was a crank call, I put the phone down at once.
Only later, did I find out that the woman was calling from FANI, which stands for Feminists Are Not Imbeciles; a lesbian activist organisation.
Apparently there are FANI’s in quite a few countries; which is a good thing.
So, girls, remember, if you get the call, please support your FANI.
Oh, there’s the last call for boarding. I must dash. Saul says he hopes to meet a New Zealand hooker after the match. It’s bad enough that Marge’s husband ran off with one. The man is insatiable!
Bye for now.
Love Aunty Jane xx
This is definitely not a topic we would have discussed at the dinner table only a few years back, now is it girls?
Well, times change and and so does fashion. And fashion touches every area of our lives, does it not? And ‘touches’ may be the appropriate term here.
These days it is perfectly acceptable to say, “I’ve had a Brazilian,”
I’ll be very honest I had never heard of the term ‘Having a Brazilian’ until Berenice mentioned it over lunch the other day. She obviously realised from my expression that I wasn’t familiar with this area of women’s health and was not only willing to tell me all about her Brazilian but offered to show me as well. Good grief! These young girls!
I politely declined. As I mentioned before, I am Old School, and this did not seem appropriate, and certainly not at the dinner table. I mean, Jeremy was with us for heaven’s sake and was almost salivating at the prospect. This didn’t go down well with Jeremy, as you can imagine, and he stormed off in a sulk.
If I were to venture any sort of opinion on this rather delicate topic, I would venture that most ladies of my generation would opt for ”Bush”, as the alternative and somewhat crude term is referred to by the modern generation.
However, I am sure there are merits for the newer cleaner look of a Brazilian.
You look at the photos below and and let me know what you think? Are you a ”Bush” girl or a Brazilian?”
I think I prefer a nicely trimmed George Bush.
PS. Berenice told me the name of her Brazilian is Carlos, and she had him for dinner last Wednesday. I was quite relieved, I can tell you. Jeremy has asked for his autograph, as he is apparently a footballer.
BFN Love Aunty Jane. x
….or coping with memory loss.
My grandson, Jeremy, has a joke he likes to tell. It goes something like this.
Long John Silver stands on the empty deck of his ship and yells,
“Where’s me Buccaneers?”
To which his Parrot replies,
“On the side of y’buccan head y’fool.”
Which lends a bit of credence to that old saying , ”I’d lose my head if it wasn’t screwed on.”
I know it’s certainly true of myself. I couldn’t begin to guess how many times have I have lost something, only for it to turn up in the most unusual place.
Now in the case of my poor neighbour , Marge, she lost something but never got it back. It was her husband, Rodney. She lost him in Sainsbury’s.
It was too terrible and took her ages to get over the shock.
There they were doing the ‘weekly shop’, you how it is, ladies , yes, and had just walked by the hardware section. Marge knows her Rodney has a thing for nuts and bolts and especially assorted screws so she told him to , ”Wait here, okay?” while she went off to check out the pickled fish. After popping some herring into her trolley she went back to the hardware section and Rodney had disappeared. Now she was sure she had left him in this isle as she usually did every week and Rodney would happily while away the time waiting for Marge’s return by fiddling with all the nuts and bolts and other things men love to play with. But as she turned into the isle pushing her trolley -no Rodney. She was distraught and even after an exhaustive search he didn’t turn up.
Yet , after nearly six months she received a postcard from an anonymous person who claimed they had seen Rodney in Sydney with an Australian hooker. Marge was as distraught as she was baffled as she knew Rodney hated rugby.
Well, my dears, the point of this post is to make sure you keep your mind and your eyes sharp. And it could do no harm if we all learned a bit about rugby too I suppose. Men and their balls eh?
BFN. All the best. Love Aunty Jane x
It would be fair to say that I am what one might call Old School. Not in my outlook but rather in the manner I was brought up. In my day girls were raised to know their place. Boys were boys and girls weren’t.
Although, to be fair, at my old boarding school, our PT teacher Miss Heppelthwaite looked more like a man than a woman; and there was even talk. It was a bit scandalous to tell the truth. But one could hardly blame us girls for wondering. I mean, she only wore trousers, never a skirt; her hair was cropped like an army squaddie and she had more facial hair than my late father, for heaven’s sake!
But the line between men and women was much more defined in those days and people were far more conservative too. It seems ludicrous now, but in my mother’s day women could even be measured for ironing boards. And many were!
Dreadful, I realise, but true nonetheless. That was the way it was in those days. Thank goodness we don’t have to put up with that sort of nonsense any more, ladies. In fact, if any man today were even to suggest a girl should be measured for an ironing board he would soon find out that a sharp crease is not the only thing we can put in his trousers, right girls?
The point is we must keep up with the times, and even if we can’t beat old Father Time we can stay abreast, mentally if not physically.
And talking of breasts and staying mentally sharp, my grandson, Jeremy has been clueing me up on Interweb abbreviations.
I overheard him using the word MILF the other day while he was discussing Berenice, the daughter of my next door neighbour, Marge.
Now, Berenice is a young, single mum of 21. She has moved back home for a while with her new baby. In my day, being a single mum was quite the scandal and the child was often referred to as being the Milkman’s.
Well, although Berenice’s little one is as white as milk I hardly think the baby belongs to Winston, the Milkman, who is not only happily married with four children of his own but his roots go as far back as Africa. That reminds me, I must ask Winston for some cream this week, and also make an appointment with the hairdresser for a tint, as my own roots, though not black; also look as though they go as far back as Africa, Ha, ha!
When I asked Jeremy, he readily explained to his gran that it stood for, Mothers I’d Love Forever. Now, isn’t that sweet? Although he did point out that this didn’t apply to his gran, because I am not his mum. He also asked that I not mention this to his own mother as it would embarrass him if she found out that he knew what MILF meant. So sweet!
But Jeremy, who turns 15 next month, reckons that Berenice is definitely a MILF, even though she is a bit too young to be his mum.
Jeremy also suggested that I do a MILF contest and have all my lady readers send in photos and have a Mother I’d Love Forever competition. He said we could do it like those ladies who do those cheeky calendars in the altogether for charity. I was tempted, but I think Jeremy has enough distractions looking at the swallows nesting under the eve of Berenice’s bedroom window through his late granddad’s binoculars to have something else to keep him away from his school homework, don’t you agree, ladies?
So there you are. Now you know what it means when someone calls you a MILF .
Thank you, Jeremy. Bless him.
BFN Love Aunty Jane. x