Tits ‘R’ Us

Every afternoon at three I am usually sitting in the summer-house, writing. I am not always writing great stuff, of course but at least I am writing. However at exactly three I am distracted by the screams and chattering from the village school next door. I feel my attention being pulled reluctantly towards the window to the glamorous mums who stand by my garden wall, laughing and chatting. Trust me, one does not need Hello magazine when living here. All that glamour, sophistication and great fashion sense is right outside my window. Not to mention the designer babies and dogs. Not satisfied with my summer-house spectating, I find I often have to venture nearer. I trudge outside in my baggy sweat pants (sorry for the Americanism) and tatty jumper (well, I was only writing. After all, Iris Murdoch never dressed up, right?) I head to the dustbin where I can get a better look at the school gates. I empty the Sainsbury carrier bag that doubles up as a bin bag and stare mesmerised at the sight before me. The fragrant smells of Chanel and Marc Jacob assault my nostrils while swinging designer handbags dazzle me. The scathing looks I receive have me scurrying back with head bowed. I feel almost inclined to walk back down my garden path towards the summer-house with a brown paper bag over my head. Of course, I then spend the next hour wondering why it is that I cannot achieve this look. Is there something wrong with me? Even the Betterware lady who comes to our house looks a little like Joan Rivers. Mind you, her house also looks like something out of house and Garden magazine. Maybe I should become a Betterware representative. They obviously pay well. Then again, I probably just don’t have the Joan Rivers look to be a Betterware representative. I mean, truthfully, if I resemble anyone I feel sure it is Hilda Ogden out of Coronation Street. I have tried. I buy all the face creams but nothing seems to work. I used the scientifically proven Boots protect and perfect, or is Perfect and protect? Anyway, I used that for a year and I swear I look older now. I even started booking a wash and blow dry at my local hairdressers. Although I have to admit it felt like the ultimate in laziness. I make a visit to the hairdresser to have my hair cut or coloured, but just to have it washed, I mean, really. Why pay someone to do something you can easily do yourself for free? It is rather like paying someone else to wipe your arse isn’t it? Mind you come to think of it that is probably worth every penny. I just don’t do hairdressers that well. You know all that chatting about holidays and stuff and gossiping about your sex life and whether you do oral sex or not. I mean, good lord, does anyone really care if you do or don’t. Worse of all, why is it so important to get the answer right? I get so flustered that when my hairdresser asks,
‘Do you have cap or foil?’ I am afraid to answer in case I have misunderstood and they are referring to my sex life. I mean, one doesn’t want to get these things wrong. People gossip after all. Then there is all that lying. Well, my hairdresser lies.
‘No, darling, I don’t believe we are covering the grey, not yet. Why, you don’t look a day over thirty.’
Not bloody much! Some mornings I look in the mirror and swear I have seen better heads on beer, but I transgress. Where was I? Ah, yes, having my hair washed and blow dried and even I have to admit it looks great until the next morning. After a fitful restless night, it sits like a limp pancake on my head and my effort at blow drying it in the same way as the hairdresser usually end up with me fighting to get my tangled hair out of the sodding hairbrush and as for fashion and sophistication, let’s not even go there. This is the woman who spends more time with her skirt tucked in her knickers than anyone I know. I have been known to walk across a crowded and very chic restaurant with my Marks and Sparks panties on show. No, fashion just doesn’t work with me. This is the woman who ran for a bus wearing a boob tube and ended up asking the driver for a single to Romford with her tits on show. I am also probably the only woman alive who can wear Chanel No 5 and have it smell like cats piss on her. Eye make-up has my eyes streaming and lipstick is chewed off in minutes. So, you can understand why I stare enviously at these women who manage to look like models when they deliver their kids at eight in the morning. I can’t even manage looking alive at that time. Brekky and a quick coffee is all I can muster in the morning. So, I made a resolution to keep to a beauty regime. But when Monday morning comes I mostly just want to shoot the whole world down. I crawled into the bathroom after my husband only to find I couldn’t see a thing through the steamed up mirror. Cursing I fumbled around in the overstuffed bathroom cupboard to find the small mirror I had bought yonks ago. No luck. I finally give up, have a quick shower and then realise I only have ten minutes. No time for hair styling or make up if I want to prepare my lunch. I choose lunch. Food always over rides fashion. I rush out of the house without even moisturiser. Note to self-get up at the crack of dawn if you wish to look glamorous. I choose sleep. After all that is the best beauty treatment. Yes, a nap at three in the afternoon sounds good. Avoidance always was the key.

Forceps anyone?

Sorting through the bathroom cupboard, I found my Mooncup. Suffices to say it was not fit for wear. Memories of why I bought one in the first place flooded into my head like a haemorrhage (forgive the pun) and I thought what a blog entry that would be. So, hang onto your hats and be prepared. By the way if you are like me, you will be wondering what on earth a Mooncup is. I would never have known had a good friend not introduced me to them. Throw away your tampons and sanitary towels and join the revolution! Save money and never worry about Toxic shock syndrome again and when you came as close to it as I did, for that alone you would be grateful. Okay, I exaggerate a bit, well, maybe a lot but hey I was the one who had a tampon surgically removed. Okay, ready, because, I shan’t be telling this story again in a hurry. So let us go back a few years. It is close to Christmas and a good friend has invited me to her works Christmas party. A great opportunity to buy a posh frock, dress up and basically have a good time. Now, if you’re a woman you probably know all about tampons. Easy to insert (apparently) not in the least bit messy (apparently) Gives you amazing freedom to do just about everything (apparently) and they are safe (apparently.) The latter I would question. But hey, it was probably just my luck. So, here I am, all doled up, posh frock, fake diamonds and all, ready for dancing, should anyone be asking. Just a change of tampon and I will be as ready as ready can be. The next eight hours free of worry and full of fun fun fun. Oh, why does life have a habit of backfiring on me? I had ten minutes. Plenty of time for a quick tampon change, you would think. Oh no, not in this case. My first fumble for that little piece of string didn’t cause me too much anxiety. I still had another hour or so to go before it was due to come out. With as much elegance as I could muster under the circumstances I cocked one leg and tried again. Now, there was a feeling of mild anxiety. Good god where was the damn string? I fumbled and probed and felt myself perspire. I stopped to check the time and then flew back for another go. Five minutes later and almost losing my hand up there I sat down panting onto the toilet seat. Now, I was seriously beginning to doubt I had even inserted one. I mean just high can the thing go? And more importantly how the hell did it get that high? One more try. This time I feel the string. God it is so high I almost lose my arm. Okay another exaggeration. I scream as I pinch myself and quickly give up. I am now fighting the clock in more ways than one. My friend expected me ten minutes ago and my tampon (bless its cotton socks) expires in less than an hour. Frantic now, I grab the Tampon box and yank the Toxic Shock Syndrome advice sheet and slump onto the bathroom floor with it.
* Remember to wash your hands before and after inserting and removing the tampon.
(Well, obviously, I know that!)
* You should change your tampon every 4 to 8 hours
(Oh good lord, it is close to the 8 hours now.)
* Be sure to use the lowest absorbency tampon for your flow.
(A quick check of the tampon box confirms my fear. Yes it is super strength.)
* Always remove your used tampon before inserting a new one.
(I’m bloody trying aren’t I?)
* Be sure to remove your last tampon at the end of your period.
(I’m having trouble removing one In the middle of my period, let alone the end.)
Finally.
* If you wish to use this product overnight, you may do so, provided that you insert a fresh tampon before retiring and remove it immediately upon waking.You should never wear a tampon for more than 8 hours to reduce the risk of TSS during your menstruation.
(HELP!!)
I pulled myself up from the floor, grabbed my car keys and drove like a maniac to my friends. She rushed out smiling on hearing my car screech to a halt. I never hated her more in that moment. Dressed to the nines and tampon free, I mean, I just couldn’t help myself. I was so sore in the nether regions from so much poking about that anyone without a period was a target for my hate.
‘We have to go to A&E.’ I announced.
It suffices to say I was not popular. All credit to her, she did agree to come with me. Of course the only thing that propelled me to A&E was fear and that quickly trebled to absolute terror on seeing the board as we entered.
‘Patient waiting time is an estimated 8 hours. Please report to the triage nurse.’
Eight hours! I didn’t have eight hours to spare. I would be dead before they even got near my vagina. This was turning into a nightmare. My friend pushed me into the queue and found herself a seat. Constantly checking my watch, I edged closer and closer to the desk, very aware of the man with the bleeding arm behind me. Not because of his bleeding arm, you understand but because he would overhear everything I relayed to the triage nurse. I was embarrassed enough.
Finally she calls me over and just my luck she has one of those voices that closely resemble a fog horn. I want to die. In fact I am thinking dying is preferable to the embarrassment.
‘I have a tampon stuck. I have tried everything…’
‘How long has the tampon been in there,’ she interrupts and I feel sure the whole of A&E stops. A bit like one of those John Wayne moments when the stranger walks into the saloon.
‘Almost eight hours,’ I quiver.
‘You’re certain you have one in there?’ She says dismissively looking behind me. Ooh, excuse me is there a better class of patient waiting?
‘Well, yes,’ I say feebly. ‘I can feel the string.’
Did the man behind me tut?
‘Is it a regular one?’
‘Super,’ I say blushing and she raises her eyebrows. Is this bad?
‘Have you had intercourse?’
Good lord is that relevant?
‘Well, when do you mean exactly?’ I ask stupidly.
She shakes her head.
‘Today, have you had intercourse today with the tampon in?’
Does she think I am totally stupid? The look on her face tells me she obviously does.
‘Of course not,’ I reply defensively.
‘Take a seat.’
I question whether I really ought to be seen urgently but it seems to be met by a sneer.
And so we wait and we wait and my friend gets more and more anxious and I get more and more convinced that the symptoms of Toxic shock are beginning to show. At 10.30pm I am called in. I have been there 4 hours and the tampon has now been in for 12 hours. My days are numbered. My friend assures me it is fine and that the symptoms of Toxic shock are not that bad. She obviously has not read the same horror stories I have. I leave her wallowing in her ignorance. I then spend what seems like agonising hours being poked by a very handsome doctor and trust me it was not as nice as it sounds.
‘Are you certain you have a tampon in here,’ he calls from somewhere within my nether regions.’I can’t even see it. How did you get it so high?’
Well, if I knew that…’
‘Shall I have a go,’ offers a nurse.
Why not. Anyone else want to get in the queue? Trust me if you want to hang onto your dignity, don’t lose a tampon up your… well anyway. So, the nurse has a go and the doctor tries again. Forceps are requested and general surgery is discussed. Then the words I had been dreading.
‘We have to get that out. If it is in there much longer we will face a serious threat of toxic shock. Prepare for surgery.’
My heart sinks and I think it is time to call my husband. Forceps are pushed in and the nurse screams.
‘I see it,’
I almost cry. I have been vindicated.
‘Can you grab it,’ asks the doctor urgently.
More probing, more pinching, more biting of my lip and she calls out triumphantly that she has it.
‘Push,’ orders the Doctor.
This is probably the closest I will ever come to giving birth so I make the most of it. I push, she pulls and this lasts for all of a few seconds and then she is holding it up for all to see. Suffices to say they did not wrap it into a blanket and hand it to me while tears were shed all round.
Walking rather like John Wayne I approached my friend and with great difficulty drove us both home. After that little story do you blame me for resorting to the Moon cup? Talking of which I am heading over to Amazon to order a new one as we speak

Treading on a penis

On Saturday I strolled into the Ann Summers shop in Oxford. Yes, I really did. I remember bumping into a bespectacled woman while browsing the vibrator section.
Don’t worry I am not going to go into a detailed description of the assortment of vibrators on sale. But the difference of ages in the women who were there was interesting. The youngest must have been 18 and the oldest (not me) had to have been the bespectacled woman, all of sixty, if not more. Of course, it is not the first time I have been into Ann Summers and thinking about it on the way home it reminded me of my first innocent Ann Summers party and the disastrous second one.
My first Ann Summers party was many years ago when the whole Ann Summers thing was something you whispered and giggled about. I went along with some trepidation. I had never even seen a vibrator and was quite nervous at the thought of ever even doing so. But, amazingly enough not even a glimmer of a vibrator was in sight. The whole party was about sexy lingerie. I came home feeling quite proud of the fact that I had attended an Ann Summers party and come home unscathed. When any of the women I worked with mentioned Ann Summers in hushed tones, I would say proudly, ‘Oh, I’ve been to an Ann Summers party and quite enjoyed it.’ So, when a few years later I was invited to another one and my friend’s-very innocent- eighteen-year-old daughter asked if she could come too, I said yes. After all, there would only be sexy lingerie there, I thought. Never presume in life, trust me on this one. We entered and the first things to greet us were little wound up penises running around the lounge floor. Somehow, my instinct told me this was not going to be anywhere near as similar as my previous experience. I looked to my friend who was very cleverly pretending not to notice the little penises, while I made concerted efforts not to step on them. The thought of a mangled penis, even made of plastic can make one squirm slightly. Glasses of wine were offered and boy did I need one having just spotted the various assortments of sex toys on the table. My sole aim now was to try and prevent any discomfort for my companion. I quickly realized this party had very little interest in lingerie unless you included pink fluffy handcuffs in that category. After being advised by my straight-laced friend that perhaps I should not be drinking considering I was driving us both home later, I shelved the wine. I waited with bated breath for what was to come next when the hostess asked us for quiet. After a brief introduction, she went on to tell us that we would now play ‘pass the parcel’ in an attempt to get to know each other and some of the Ann Summers goods. My heart sank. I smiled at my friend who shifted in her seat.
‘Ready girls?’
I wanted to scream no, and frantically tried to think of excuses to leave quickly. I could suddenly develop severe diarrhoea but the music started to blare and so began the passing of the parcel. Oh, horror of horrors. The first unwrapping produced the largest vibrator I had ever seen in fact I am sure my eyes watered at the sight. In case we needed a closer look it was passed around as the game continued. The music stopped and the parcel landed in my companions lap. I held my breath. In an instant she had thrown it into mine. Everyone began clapping for me to open it. Ah, at last some nice lingerie, a lovely black frilly bra. I read the forfeit. Oh, great. I had to stand up, clutch my breasts (such as they were) and sing ‘I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts’.
Strangely enough I was more embarrassed about singing out of tune than anything else. My friend looked relieved. Finally the game over, we had more fun with the walking penises and more vibrators were passed around until I became punch drunk on vibrators. Of course by this time a fair bit of wine had been consumed and some of the women began sharing their sex secrets. I discreetly moved the eighteen year old to a safer area. Others were crying into their wine and vibrators about how their husband’s didn’t care about their needs, while I tried to work out how to buy something without my friend knowing what it was. Then we had the fashion show where the lingerie came into its own. We were all encouraged to try on something and share. Sharing is bonding it seems. I sensed my friend was not keen to bond. I squeezed myself into a maid’s outfit much to her look of disgust. I was beginning to enjoy myself now even without the wine. But from her face I could see it was time to go. I raced through the book with her eyes on me and finally after handing in my order, I made some excuse and we left. We were silent in the car until we reached her house and as she climbed out I hesitantly asked.
‘Did you enjoy yourself?’
‘I just think it best if mum does not know.’ was her reply.
Driving home I remember thinking prim little madam! Finally I got home and my husband said,
‘Had a good time?’
‘Yes I trod on a penis, it was great fun.’
Now, thank goodness I don’t have to attend Ann Summers parties I can just stroll into the shop in Oxford and not have to worry about playing pass the parcel or being given disapproving looks. Wonderful