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On Saturday our mates came over. I got shit-faced.
Husband was up in the garage looking for more beer when my friend informed me shed had a message saying Id won the award for Top Blogger on Americymru.net. I am absolutely landed- these are the people running a Welsh festival in L.A, on Hollywood Boulevard no less. My Award West Coast Eistedfodd 2011
Husband comes back in just as Im telling my friend to open another bottle for us to celebrate.
Celebrate what? He asks.
I dont know what came over me at this moment, what was going through my mind, what piss taking little funster possessed me to say it, but I heard myself telling him...
It was going to be a surprise, but I got a job.
Ah for fucks sakes. Why didn't I just say I was pregnant or something? I of course haven't got a job.
Before you get all Jeremy Kyle, I dont sit here and claim benefits while drinking coffee and writing about gluing my Husbands shoes together; I pay council tax and Im not on the dole. I just dont have a job. Its not like Im not applying though, Im even following a recruitment agency on Twitter:
Cloudninerec steve ward
Senior social media strategist 55-65k, London http: #############
crapwife crap wife
@ cloudninerec Is it worth applying with a couple of GCSEs and a certificate in food hygiene that I bought off a Harvester grill chef?
Cloudninerec steve ward
@ crapwife Sadly probably not, and oh - you wasted your money on the food & hygiene certificate... ;)
crapwife crap wife
@ cloudninerec Hi Steve- just to let you know I've swapped my food hygiene for a City and Guilds in reflexology- does this change anything?
He said no, theres just nothing out there for me at the moment.
I was very ill on Sunday. It would seem that sometime during the course of the evening I contracted MRSA. My first clue about this came when I woke to find my tongue had been stuck to my pillow. This is not, as Husband suggested, red wine dehydration. It seems that pillowcases with an above 600 thread count act as a Velcro when in contact with the tongue. I tell Husband to find me the phone number for Egypts cotton Minister so that I can complain.
Being Mothers Day we go visiting. My Grandparents have just returned from Amsterdam and they have bought me presents. I am very pleased with the Delft ashtray and 100 fags, less so with the ball of garlic cheese that spent 18 hours in Nanny's handbag on the return journey.
Having a fag with my Grandparents is one of lifes little pleasures, never before on the planet have two people managed to tangle so much randomness into a ball and call it conversation. They are possibly the funniest people I know. They make me feel like a kid- even at 28 my Nanna tries to dress me and do my hair.
Though careful not to mention it in front of the Husband, they are avidly following the blog. I dont know what my Nanna thinks blog means, but its her new favourite word. She phoned me last week to ask me to blog her over a photo of the garden, and then told me she was going to have a blog on the online bingo before dinner.
My Grandfather has said that Im not allowed to quote anything they say without paying them royalties, but Im hoping theyll be too busy trying to buy a blog Argos to read this.
Also following the blog are my parents, who arrive shortly after we do. Unfortunately, I have to distance myself from my mother today as once again as she looks stunning and next to her I look like a Kosovan Refugee who ate a 4x4.My mother was born in 1961 which is the same year as the Berlin wall was built. She stopped aging in 1989, which iscoincidentallywhen it came down.I dont mind being seen next to my Dad, (or Silver Fox as we call him) next to him my grey hairs are barely noticeable .
After discovering that my Uncle (who lives opposite) is out shopping and moulding the builders sand on his driveway into a large penis, we head home.
Now I think about it, this was definitely a mistake. The Uncle in question is a nightmare- this is a man who once used a forklift truck to put someones mini in a skip because they stuck a key to his Diahatsu and called it a Noddy car. Compared to him Im an amateur. Hes vowed to get me back and I spent the rest of my day drawing up a battle plan just in case he does.
The night-time challenges resumed last night.
If you want to get into bed you have to eat the whole ball of garlic cheese.

We like garlic and we like cheese(we've even been known to like the two together) but this cheese is like nothing Ive encountered- if Id have had the foresight to post it to Edward Cullen, there wouldnt have been a Twilight series.
Husband hasnt gone to work this morning and I feel a little bit guilty. He was up all night throwing up after eating the cheese and he looks like shit today.
He finally managed to sleep around 4am, shattered and feeling very sorry for himself. This is why is hasn't spoken to me since 7.15am, which is when the Postman woke him up to delivery his clothes.
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My love affair with Campbells cuppa soup is completely over. Last night after my bath I resorted to cuppa soups in the absence of cigarettes. Half way through the second, I found at the bottom of my mug what can only be described as a dehydrated chicken arse. It actually touched my actual mouth. This triggered a volley of dry heaves that nearly resulted in another Poppy-gate. (Poppy is the cat and Im not proud of this but... about six months ago, after a night out (drinking something that tasted like Bertie Bassett threw up in a shot glass) I accidently vomited on her. I tried to get the bathroom in time but my shoes were the same colour as the carpet and the resulting invisible feet caused me to lose balance, fall up the stairs, land awkwardly and throw up on the sleeping tabby. I told you, Im not proud, but it happened and you have a right to know.)
Husband was awoken from his slumber by my cries of distress and was clearly concerned.
Whats wrong now? he said.

Theres an arse in my soup and it touched my mouth.

You are taking the bloody piss.
Hes not good when hes sleepy.
After showing Husband the arse and crying a bit, he was able to see that it was all his fault and that none of this would have happened if hed just given me my fags. He must have felt pretty shitty about it because he made me some tea and gave me a foot-rub.
We didnt stay up too long as Husband was freezing due to only having swimming shorts to use as pyjamas so we returned to bed where I dreamed that I was given the Spanish Armada as a birthday present. During one of my hourly burglar checks I got my tit stuck in the venetian blind which led to more distresed noises and crying- by morning its fair to say we were knackered.
Husband was off work all day due to his new fangled shift patterns and if you ask me its a fucking blessing. His clothes still havent arrived and hes today wearing a sleeveless vest with some shell-suit bottoms. I can once again see his knob.
Husband believes that this is because its got bigger. I tell him thats hes probably right as itcouldn'thave got any fucking smaller.
I'mnot good when Im sleepy either.
Husband and I reach an uneasy truce around Midday when he tells me that hes sorry about the fags. I tell him that I too am sorry for not preventing his clothes from getting robbed. We have a cuddle and a cup of tea and throw the soup sachets in the bin together. I feel calmer knowing theyre not in the house anymore.
Late afternoon and were starving. Were only going to Tesco when absolutely necessary at the moment and Husband offers to pop to the Co-op. Our local Co-op is a marvellous place, alright the prices are extortionate and they prey on the loyalties of pensioners, but the staff are generally wonderful. I have never known a shop that will go so far to help a customer in need.
Husband has been gone about 10 minutes before I ring the Co-op.
Hello Co-op, this is Linda speaking, how may I help?
Hello Linda, I hope you can, strange request but Im in a bit of a tizzy. My son has just popped down to your shop for some essentials and Ive had a bit of an accident.
Are you okay? asks Linda, she sounds nice.
Im fine, its just my age. Ive tried to ring his mobile telephone but hes left it here and I desperately need to get a message to him, I was hoping you d be able to find him and pass it on?
If you think it would help my love, of course. Whats his name and whats the message?
His names ###### ######, hes wearing one of those shelly suits thats all the rage. Just tell him that his Mam has had one of her accidents- hes going to need to pick up some tenna-lady super absorbent, bleach, a new mop head and a twix. If you could do that, my love, Id be ever so grateful.
Right... no problem, dont you worry- Ill call him over the tannoy and then give him the message myself. Rest up til he gets home now.

Husband bought me 40 fags. Hes a fast learner.
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I am thankful that I had a legitimate reason for not attending Husbands team lunch yesterday. Im not so thankful for the nature of the reason. Im a little bit addicted to Campbells cuppa soups at the moment and in my haste to get my fix I left the teaspoon in the mug and stabbed myself in the eye with it.
CW Text : C ant come to lunch. Sorry. Been stabbed in eye.
Reply : WTF? By who?
CW Text : Campbells. Very bad. Its touch and go. If I die, dont get over me.
Reply : R U dicking about or R U actually hurt.
CW Text : Whats RU?
Reply : Are you.
CW Text : Am I what?
Reply : If you can see to text and take the piss then I will take that to mean youre not dying. CU.
CW Text : Whats CU?
Reply : Short for c*nt.

I think Husbands mad. Im starting to worry about the clothes situation. He made it quite clear that I was to make sure that his wardrobe was full again by the end of the day. After phoning the Royal Mail and being advised that delivery will be made within 2-4 working days, I had to swiftly come up with a plan to fill his empty wardrobe.

To my relief, my beautiful (ginger) niece has left her pencil case here and I was able to draw pictures of all the missing clothes and blu-tack them to coat hangers. Dodged a bullet there, I think youll agree.
Husband arrives home late from work in a delightful mood considering I didnt attend his work lunch. He says that his Uni clothes were a huge hit and that he told everyone what had happened with my eye and they all send their best. Peachy.
Compared to his, my mood is admitidly a little less delightful- I attribute this to my mortal wound as my eye is actually, properly, not-even-joking hurting. And I cant see facebook without squinting. Add me here
Husband, to his credit offers to run me a Radox bath to ease my stresses and go to the shop to replenish my cigarette supply as I have self medicated the eye with nicotine and run out. Everyone knows that theres no better cure for stress than a soak in water than smells like a synthetic jungle and a fag.
My mood quickly improves as overall Im pleased. Ive managed to side step the humiliation of being seen in public with him and have resolved to change my facebook status to separated in order to detach myself from him while his clothes are missing. Just as soon as I can see it properly again.
After a blissful 40 minutes in the bath, drinking red wine and savouring my last ciggie, I hear Husband opening his wardrobe in the spare room. Wow he says, hes clearly impressed with the art work, although in hindsight, this may just as easily have been Cow.
By the time I emerge from the bath, (thoroughly soaked and looking like Gloria Hunifords knee) Husband is in bed. Bless him; hes had a long day.
Im pleased that hes asleep because itll give me time to colour my drawings in. I am, however, less pleased with the drawing of 20 Marlboro Lights hes left on the coffee table. CU.
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Last night didnt turn out quite as Id planned.
Where are my clothes?
Wherever you left them, Husband.
I left them in my house, and theyre not here now.
Maybe they were stolen, Ive been distracted today what with trying not to impale myself on a golfing umbrella and being fat.
I didnt call you fat. He says.
You did a bit. Its fine, and I will diet if itll make you happier.
(Accusing someone of calling you fat is an easy way to panic them. This only works if youre fat.)
I didnt say I want you to diet!
You said that I should be vegetarian in order to lose some weight!
No I didnt! Thats about your headaches! And I didnt even suggest it! It was my mother!
So now your mother thinks Im fat?
The ripe panic on Husbands face is as obvious as that wart thing on Sarah Jessica Parkers chin.
Look, can we just drop it, Husband; youre only making it worse. Ive had a really busy day today and Ive got a paper cut. And stop going on about your clothes, I dont know what youve done, but I suggest you find them.
Yeah ok babe, Ill go and have a look, I need to find something- Ive got my team lunch out tomorrow and theyre doing pictures for the new ID badges.
Shit.
Husband rummaged around upstairs for nearly an hour. Obviously he was never going to find his clothes- by that time they were probably being chucked around by a night-shift postal worker that smells of grapes and speed.
Cant find them babe- but good news... Ive found my old Uni clothes in the attic; Ill throw some of them on a quick wash.
Oh my fucking God.
I dont know if Im alone here, but when Husband and I moved in together, I confiscated a large portion of his wardrobe for shames sake. Theyve been boxed in the attic ever since.
You cant wear those, I forbid it.
Im going to have to babe. If my clothes really have been stolen then I dont have a choice- I cant even pop to Tescos to get something new as Ive had a few beers. Hes calling my bluff. He wouldnt.
Apparently he would. The man has no shame.
Husband went to work this morning dressed in a Global Hyper Colour T-shirt, leather waistcoat and a pair of satin stripe trousers belonging to a long lost tuxedo. The trousers are so tight you can see his knob, the waistcoat has the look of a raped and splayed bean bag and the T-Shirt appears to have Chlamydia. I am absolutely fucking mortified.
You dont have to tell people that youre married when youre on a works day out Husband- I dont mind if you want to pretend that youre single sometimes.
Dont be daft, Wife, I love you, I love telling everybody that Im married to you. I have photos of you in my wallet. I show them to everyone.
I just mean that you dont have to mention my name- you could just say my wife you dont have to use my full name.
Youve got a lovely name, I like it when people know were married, loads of people in work know you.
Ive always considered my Husband to be a really decent accessory- hes a tidy bit of kit. Im proud to be married to him because hes an amazing person but mainly because because hes quite easy on the eye. The thought of him venturing out looking like hes been dressed by an autistic Gok Wan is making me die inside.
Dont forget 1pm in La Cantina- Ive left taxi money on the bookcase- all the Husbands and Wives are going so Ill be really pissed off if youre not there- I did email you about it yesterday.
I dont read his emails, theyre really fucking boring; He once sent me 800 words about the new adjustable desks being introduced at the firms new premises. Since then I just reply Ok, Love you to whatever he sends.
I hope to God I impale myself on a golfing Umbrella before midday. RoadRunner- 1 Wiley Coyote- 0.
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Yesterday was a strange day, I realised in the shower that Im about 2 cinnamon bagels and an ovarian cyst away from having to wash with a sponge on a stick. This is of course a slight exaggeration, but you get the idea.

Im feeling a bit crap overall, and not Crap in an Ive not done the housework and Ive glued his shoes together kinda way- more just a bit glum. Husband deserted me again this morning and went to work. I did tell him that I may get dizzy from all the loneliness, fall down the stairs, impale myself on a golfing umbrella and die, but he left anyway.
I decide early on that keeping busy is the only way to stave off the boredom, so I set about ironing and planning for World Domination. The ironing was actually easier than the plans for domination, which surpised me as Im shit at doing shirts. I also decide to clean out the understairs cupboard and am amazed to discover how much brown paper and parcel tape is lurking behind the coats- its left over from my attempt at becoming an eBay magnate, which like so many of my projects, never materialised.
Husband rings about midday to check how I am.
Im fine thanks flower pots, Im not dead which is good, because you would probably be charged with murder by neglect if I was.
Going to work isnt classed as neglect though really, is it?
Yes. It is actually. The judge would throw the book at you- leaving your defenceless wife home alone where anything could happen- theres probably a paedophile looking for a little whipper snapper like me at this very moment.
Youre mental. Youre not really what they look for babe- they tend to go for smaller younger people. He says
I cant believe you just said that- so Im old and fat now am I? Im only 28, Im hardly Janice Dickinson and you know Im sensitive about my weight!
You know what I mean, shut up will you? back peddles Husband.
So Im old, fat and you dont want to talk to me, fine, Im so glad you phoned.
Dont start, what do you want for dinner tonight, Ill pick something up.
Im not eating, Im too fat. Im going now
Babe....
The boredom today is as thick as the dust my exercise bike and I am forced to take drastic action to prevent tedium induced insanity (this is a very real problem and I am shocked by the lack of public awareness.) Even the Xbox isn't holding my interest, and I love my Xbox so much that if I had a disk shaped penis I'd bum it.
Thankfully, being ingenious, I hit upon a plan. Unfortunately the plan involves venturing back to the Post Office.
I dont know about you, but for me, the worse part of doing the laundry is putting it away- Im not very good at carry things and walking on stairs without falling. This is why Im so pleased with my solution.
Its amazing how many individual items of clothing a 30 year old man can accumulate over the years. Because theyre usually spread between drawers, wardrobes and washing baskets, you never really get an idea of just how much there is.
It cost 61.85p to post all his clothes back to him, I held the Post Office tutters up for ten minutes before they eventually opened up another window for them. I know this money could have been put to better use- especially considering that keeping the dog in fillet steak isn't cheap. I think you'll agree it's worth it though- he did call me fat after all.
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(I'm really sorry about the delay with today's blog, the site hasn't been letting me upload or track any views etc and I'm fucked if I know how to fix it.)
Mother in law has left and were really sad to see her go. Not just because its been nice having her here, but because were frightened of killing the garden- she has managed in under a week to create a gorgeous garden which we can enjoy for years to come. Were tremendously happy with it. Husband however, is nervous. He knows now its just the two of us again that hes vulnerable. Hes right to be scared. Im going to start off subtly, I will start by reintroducing the night time challenges and build up to something major, which is yet to be confirmed. I have lists and a clipboard and Im going to war.
As Husband was back to work today he went for an early night while I caught up on the soaps. I feel better now Ive had my fix but am once again annoyed by some of the storylines in soap-land. Ronnie Mitchell is getting right on my tits. I still havent got over the fact that I waited all those months to see the conclusion of the Danielle Daughter/Mitchell Mother storyline. Im still angry about it. As usual, the ever considerate producers had included a help line number for those affected by the issues in the show.
"Hi, my name's ######. I've been affected by some of the issues in tonights show- you see, I gave my daughter away when she was a baby because my father made me, I grew up distant, closed off and acerbic, and never had a boyfriend 'cause anyone I tried to have sex with lost their penis to the cold, the only saving grace in my sad little life was my overwhelming love for my sister, who I have suffocated and babied through her cocaine addiction in Ibiza and her failed relationships with a nightclub owner, unfortunately, it would appear that she has slept with the only man who had enough sense to use Anti-Freeze instead of KY when he shagged me, and they now have a baby- that they called Amy, you know, like the one I gave away- in between all this, my sister's husband left her, and I had to save them from an icy pool, fortunately I'm immune to the cold; I'm not really speaking to my sister, but I'm making an effort because my father (who told me my kid was dead) is marrying my aunt, not sure how it's come about, but that's how us Mitchells roll, anyway, to get to my point, it would appear that the cleaner from the local pub who's been following me looking sad for a while (can't blame her, I did recently help you get an abortion) is actually my daughter, who is not in fact dead, oh, hang on, that tramp from the car lot has just mown her over. You can see my problem, I've very much been affected by the issues in tonights show, and I think when your writers are mirroring real life so closely in future, you need to think of the affect this could have on your audience."
In typical Eastenders style, they stretched the storyline to breaking point which eventually snapped onto our screens like the cheap, dried out elastic band that holds your fathers VAT returns together in the attic. What reward did we get for our dedicated following soaps passion? Thats right, we got to watch the whining whisperer from Telford being mown down by a slope headed heathen with a bad wardrobe and one necklace to her name.
Fuck you Eastenders.
And theyre at it again.
How long have we been subjected to the baby switching antics of Mrs Branning? At this rate, Ronnies theft of baby Moon wont be realised until alarm bells start ringing when hes old enough to dress himself in leopard skin nylon and a pleather mac. Sad. Its not that Im not able to empathise with the situation, its more that Im mortified that the writers didn't consider cot death alone to be horrific enough to be a storyline in itself, and they felt the need to sex it up with cot swap.
For those of you not in the UK who have no knowledge of Eastenders or the World of British soaps, I apologise for my rant as it must be pretty fucking boring for you. It does have some relevance on the events of the day though.
I have decided that now Mother in Law has left the building that Im going to make my own Eastenders. I have recorded the dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum tune that indicates the end of the show onto my iphone and wont be speaking to Husband without over acting and punctuating my sentences with it.
Hi babe, you alright- missed you today. He says coming through the door.

Were out of milk. I say clutching the empty bottle to my chest and holding my hand to my grief stricken head dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum
What are you doing.
Nothing
Husband ignores the sound bite and gets changed, he's in a cracking mood as I've promised him a chilled out night on the sofa and a really nice meal as during the gardening marathon home cooked fare was been off the cards along with all his favourites foods as his Mum's a veggie.
Husbands a bit scared of vegetarians. His mother hasnt eaten meat since he was about 8 and the thought of a return to vegetarianism strikes fear into his beef clogged heart.
I think I'll leave him watch a film on his own as I'm shattered from fighting yet another migrane today. My migraines have gathered momentum in the last few months. Mother in Law says that she noticed a huge difference in her own battle against the demon headaches after cutting meat and alcohol from her diet. I decide to bring this up:
Babe, Ive felt so ill for such a long time, Ive decided that something has to be done. I have been thinking about it all day, and Ive concluded that, to see if it helps......(dramatic pause)....... Im going to become a vegetarian. dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum
Do you really think it wou- dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum
Stop doing that, its really fu- dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum
Look, if you think its going to help you then Ill do it with you, I hate to see you ill, dont get me wrong, I wont enjoy it, but if it makes you feel better, Ill help. Says the sweetest man in the World.
Im so happy you understand Husband, I know that you love meat, but I really think this could be good for us for a while, we need to start being more health conscious anyway and if it helps my headaches, thats got to be worth it, hasnt it?
Yeah, ok, starting when? says poor, starving Husband. I can see him visibly shrinking in front of my eyes as the joy leaves his body. I had promised him a steak tonight, and when He phoned from work earlier I told him about the two monster fillets I had found reduced in Morrisons.
Ive made a lentil soup for dinner, so no time like the present. I had some earlier though, so youre eating alone. I fed those steaks to the animals, they loved them. Would you do me the honour of....(down on one knee).... Joining me in a cup of barley squash? dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum
Husband settles down to his lentil soup- nutritionally fantastic but a tad low on taste, I should know, I made it myself- I found a recipe online and omitted anything that looked like it could add flavour.Husband looks heartbroken.
The lentil soup really does look like shite. I'm just glad I had that fillet steak, babyleaf salad and glass of bordeax before he got home.
dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum, dum

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It was my first day of being 28 yesterday.What a shitty age, dont get me wrong, I know Im not entering my twilight years or anything, and realistically, I know its not old, but still, if the last 28 years have only taken this long, then at this rate soon all Ill have to look forward is Marisota and a slack bladder.


Twitters not helping. Ever since I started this blog, Ive been trying to get round Twitter and I still dont understand it. From what I can gather, its like faceboo

k with only status updates Im totally stumped- what the hell am I supposed to write on t

here? I have had more people follow me around the pub to tell me Ive got loo roll

hanging from my leggings than I currently have on Twitter, and it takes me 20 minutes to decipher what people are saying.


The lack of vowels people use, owing to the character count, had me thinking for the first week that Id stumbled upon Polish Facebook. Its making me feel old and out of touch. Granted- being sat in the garden writing this with a tartan blanket over my knees isnt helping matters, but still, I blame the technology.


Speaking of which, the laptop has 100% got Aids now.This morning it coughed as I booted it and started making noises like Chloe Mafias dildo, I fear the end is near so if you dont hear from me for a while its because Im burying it (maybe Ill ring Gary Mole.)


Theres little to report on the campaign to break him at the moment, after the awful cock-money fiasco I feel that the only way to succeed is to plan something major that he cant ignore/rise above/turn on me.


I will keep you posted.


In the meantime, I have created what I believe to be a fool proof plan which should really hit him where it hurts- his hair.Husband has been going bald for about 6 years now and has for a long time been shaving his head.The introduction of Regaine onto the marketplace has offered him a glimmer of hope that he thought was long gone.Im pleased for him as his bald spot becomes highly reflective under the halogen spots in the kitchen.

His Regaine has been left unopened in the bathroom cabinet for the last week has hes been too busy to commit to the routine involved. This has worked in my favour as he doesnt yet know what to expect from the solution. In this time, I have transferred the follicle enhancing elixir into an old jam jar and replaced it with a mixture consisting of 60% water, 30% hair removal cream and 10% Johnsons Holiday Skin. Im hoping, after a twice a day application over the coming months he will be left with a dome like head that looks like one of Jordan's tits. I couldnt give a shit if he doesnt like it, Ill give him some cock-money to buy a hat.


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Yesterday was a mixed bag. As it was my birthday I adopted the doing nothing because its my birthday stance and because of this, the day was much like any other. I awoke with the usual birthday feelings- bollocks thats another rung on the ladder to thirty, but still, at least therell be cake.

As Ive already babbled on about, the garden is well on its way to completion and the overall effect is stunning- Ive started viewing the pond as a fabulous water feature and stopped thinking of it as a failed hole, this has been very liberating, and although still not zen-like, Im happy and content.
The break neck speed at which the garden is being tackled is mesmerising, by the time Id decorated my wellies the beds were already down and edged. Mother in law charged me with the very important job of counting seeds into piles, which Husband couldnt be trusted with. Maybe theyll make a gardener of me yet?
Not known for my dedication to a task I was bored quickly and decided it best to get to the Post Office to send the Blue Peter letter.
This is where the day turned to shit. One thing guaranteed to piss me off on a sunny afternoon is old biddies tutting. Im sure that when a woman hits her late sixties shes whisked away to a weekend retreat, probably in the Lake District, where shes taught the lost arts of tutting, sighing and causing injury with a wheeled shopping basket. Ive no real proof of what these women keep in these gaudy looking contraptions but I imagine it to be pilfered sugar sachets, tenna lady and the souls of under 30s theyve tutted to death.
The pissy knickers brigade was out in force, the queue at the Post Office smelled of urine, biscuits and parma violets. I dont think it was pension day so they were probably posting letters to long lost relations who had the good sense to emigrate or writing to Terry Wogan about sexy adverts and the news. Either way, they were all in the Post Office as I popped in to post Husbands pictures to Blue Peter.
I should point out at that this is the first time Ive ever written to the show; I always hated it as a child and felt that the extra 30 minutes of learning they tried to disguise as entertainment at the end of the school day was both unfair and transparent. They also gave us Anthea fucking Turner. Because Ive never written to them before and am unsure of protocol, I make the error of deciding to send the letter by recorded delivery.
By the time I reached the front of the queue, I had a tidy coven of biddies filing behind me tutting and clucking about the price of stamps and kidney stones.
It wasnt until I pulled out a twenty with a massive black cock drawn onto it that I realised my mistake. Never, ever leave the house without checking for Acme traps.
Pol Pot the postal worker loudly informed me that:
The Currency and Bank Notes Act 1928 says If any person prints, or stamps, or by any means impresses, on any bank note any words, letters or figures, he shall, in respect of each offence, be liable on summary conviction to a penalty not exceeding one pound.
The penalty was changed to 25 pounds in 1977 (Criminal Law Act, s.31) and to 200 pounds in 1982 (Criminal Justice Act, s.46).

Who died and made her the fucking money police?
She shouted loudly about youngsters who watch too much Dirty Sancho (San c hez who I like)and Jackos (Jack ass, who I don't) and think its funny to play practical jokes.
It took me fifteen minutes of back peddling, denial and a 20 charitable donation to the RNLI to calm the situation.
By this is time, the tutting brigade were in fine fettle clicking their tongues like a visiting African Tribe. My patience had melted away and there, in amongst the stationary and wrapping paper, stood a seriously mortified Crap Wife. (Of course I accept no responsibility for the failure of this prank and fully blame the person who suggested cock-money via facebook.)
I dont know if the defaced money had been an act of deliberate sabotage on Husbands part, there is a chance that he hadnt looked at the notes before putting them in my purse- either way, I have had a taste of what it feels like to be on the receiving end of one of these pranks. I would love to say that this has encouraged me to drop my campaign of terror, but it hasnt. As soon as his mother goes home, hes dead.
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