Has it really been 2 years?

My goodness, it feels like a dream … checking my emails and saw an interesting blog post, clicking to read the poignant article.  This got me to thinking, gosh, I haven’t posted up anything for a few months now, let’s go explore.  Oh my Lord —- Oct 2016 was my last entry! How on earth did that time slip occur?  Where have I been to have not noticed this gaping chasm of time passing by?

No, I have not been kidnapped by aliens (not to my knowledge anyhow .. those mind wipes are great aren’t they?), nor have I been on a series of exciting adventures around the globe, necessitating the carrying of only one backpack and 3 pairs of knickers.  The tomcat (FFS) has not yet succeeded in his dastardly plan to trip me up and break every bone in my hefty body; so what the heck has kept me away for so long? Honestly, I don’t know, just life I guess. Breathing, eating, working, more eating, drawing and chilling out, yep that’s about it.

What worries me is my conception of time (or lack of), its the same when I visit the hospital or the dentist …. when did you last have X,Y or Z,  hmmmmm maybe 3 years ago,? Ummmm, try like 10 years!!

Where oh where and how does it all slip by?  Is it that my life is so humdrum that there are no significant markers to delineate the days, weeks, months, years or even decades?
Not so, I changed jobs (albeit with the same company), moved house, took on a campsite as well as my job, had a new grandson, helped my folks move 300 miles closer, prepared for my first born son’s upcoming wedding in Poland, oh and had my second emergency hernia repair within 2 years (oooh maybe it was the double dose anaesthetic?!)  and took up portrait drawing as a new hobby, having never been able to draw in all my 54 years on this planet.

I am on the final week of my summer holiday, and I just feel that I haven’t really experienced anything, just wasted precious time generally and now I want to cram everything into this final week. Time is so precious, how could I possibly have allowed myself to lose track of it so stupendously?

Well, things need to change, yes they do.  Work life balance will be adjusted appropriately, in fact I am going out on the lash this afternoon, to heck with it! Admittedly its with work colleagues, who too are mourning the finality of this last week of freedom from the drudgery of paid employment. (I love my job really, I do!).

I pledge, to stay alert and cross of my diary/calendar every day so that I can physically see time passing in front of my eyes.  I will set myself a challenge to remember to write once a week (which reminds me, I started a writing course who knows when, but never got round to getting on with it properly), and to read as many of your blogs/posts as possible, as I remember laughing and crying so hard with some of the funniest and most heartwarming posts back in the days when I knew what day it was, haha.

But just in case, I fall into a time warp again, I will now wish you a Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, Happy Easter, and look forward to next summer 🙂

Until the next time, myself and FFS signing off … beam me up Scottie.

Long time no type …ah how I missed you

Greetings fellow humans 🙂

I’ve had a rest from blogging for a few weeks or so, but and up and ready for round two if you are?!

Well its official, there’s just no getting away from it or pussy-footing around the issue any more (all puns fully intended). My Tomcat, affectionately known as FFS has made a major life decision – he’s now having a trial period having identified himself as trans; that is trans-species, as he has decided that he is now a dog, more specifically a sheepdog. It may be a teenage phase, it may not, but whichever way he chooses I will of course support him wholeheartedly.

I’ve had an inkling for a while that he is no ordinary feline, and now its staring me right in the face (I do wish he wouldn’t get his tail quite so intimately acquainted with my nose – ewww). Did I encourage him to play fetch just a little too much?  Last week, just confirmed beyond all doubt his undeniable doggy traits.

The tomcat (otherwise know as FFS) has now learned how to herd sheep. As occasionally happens in this tiny piece of paradise, a Flock of Jacobs (lovely dark brown sheep) appeared in the garden.  I was just driving them towards the gate, when FFS suddenly rounds the corner of the driveway, and running full pelt he chased them in the opposite direction, resulting in the whole flock stampeding  through the garden, over the stream and out under the fencing into the field beyond. Hey ho, they obviously thought he was a small sheepdog; well he is black and white and was running directly at them. Sigh.

This was a defining moment for him – he tried it, and boy did he like it. He wishes for this trial period to be known only as Fido.

Best go buy a leash then eh?

Much love

Pedwar xx

Life, the Universe and Everything

Well, what a fabulous night of girlie catch-ups I had in Cardiff last night. 4 old friends together once again – food, drink and laughter flowing – such a great feeling! As talk turned to general health topics, and the old battered bladder syndrome reared its head (many times, lol), pea-bladder was officially re-christened Urethra Franklin! I laughed so loud I nearly baptized her myself there and then!

The conversation flowed effortlessly, as it does with old friends, there was laughter, and briefly sobering moments, which rose and fell with a natural rhythm. We opened our hearts and souls last night, and for a moment, something quite magical happened. We don’t meet very often, but when we do, its like it was only yesterday, and time has no place or meaning in our world.

With talk ranging from ancient civilizations, long-lost knowledge, polar ice caps, UFOs, love, death, dying and spirituality, I think we covered just about EVERYTHING right there. With smiles on our faces, and sometimes tears in our eyes, we’d condensed much lost time into one magical evening together.

To quote our host “this is our time” and how right she is. It is our time, and we need to grab it tight with both hands and experience every single second that life gives to us and those around us. Our bodies may be showing the first signs of wear and tear, but damn it, between us at the table our total age (4 of us as friends and ex colleagues, plus one daughter and mother-law) was 327 years lived!! Crikey there’s a whole host of life experiences rolled up into a ball right there. So 2 vaguely dodgy bladders between us all is not at all bad in my book!

To beloved friends both here and departed, Urethra Franklin and I salute you all!

Pedwar xx






Extended warranty

Heavens I am feeling older than my years these days. If something new isn’t creaking or leaking on a daily basis, then it’s a bonus!

If I count up all my moans and groans (steady!) this past month, they have mounted up to more than I can count on one hand – but being a stubborn old moo I hadn’t until this week thought about have a waddle on down to the local quack’s office.

Had my fill of medical staff with 10 years service in the NHS, so I don’t actually like to take up their valuable time with random ailments, but now that this gaggle of malfunctions has reached epic proportions, I think its time I dragged my stubborn mule arse into town.

The moment you take your seat, and doc says “how are you today?”, and years of social conditioning sees your mouth opening with the obligatory “oh, I’m fine!” doh! I am tumbling the varying degrees of dodgy decrepitness around in my head, trying to fathom some logical order to relay my rag-bag of ailments without sounding like a raving hypochondriac looking for a dose of Dr Philomena Potamuss’ Magical Pygmy Potion.

All I want is a general MOT and a tune-up. Feeling TAT (tired all the time) and not being able to wake up properly is starting to be a pain in the proverbial, and having a bladder that goes into overdrive when one should be sleeping is a delight.  Trust me, I’m under no illusions that I’ll ever be able to cough or laugh loudly again without first crossing my legs, or dropping to my knees! The manic tom cat hasn’t managed to trip me up (yet) this week, so the arm is slowly gaining strength (touch wood/fingers crossed – and legs), I’ve only choked severely twice this week so far, and haven’t yet hit the floor when coming over ‘all woozy like’. Hacking like a life-long chain-smoker (have never smoked), and trying to keep legs crossed to stem the flood-gates at the same time is quite an art in itself!

So, let’s hope I pass my MOT and get an extended warranty on this old rust-bucket that is my body. It’s got a fair few miles on the clock, but a good engine despite the knocking tappits, and leaky valves. Here’s to a pass with maybe a few advisories, but no major works or certificate of destruction!

Oh … bladder time!!

Pedwar xx


Aging Bladders and night-time naggers

The morning started abruptly when I was rudely awaken at stupid o’clock by my nagging bladder. With another few hours to go until my alarm was due to disturb my weird dream world, even in my semi-comatose state I realised that my bladder, ravaged by the effects of 4 pregnancies and the aging process, would most likely explode magnificently should I dare to ignore the danger signs.  So, with little other option, I gingerly traversed the blackness of the bedroom, with my ancient mobile shedding just enough light not to stub my toes on the heavy furniture randomly dotted around the room.

If I could just coax my unwilling frame to the bathroom, without putting on the lights, I may just persuade the rest of my body and mind, that there was no need to wake entirely, just barely enough to carry out the necessary deflation of the over-extended bladder. The process was straightforward enough, no dramas, no drips (too much information??), no phone dropped down the loo. Brilliant.  The reverse traverse across the landing, through the bedroom was worthy of an Olympic Medal. Squeezing my ample bottom between the bed and chimney breast, avoiding the threat of my bum and the very cold wall making contact, avoiding the distinct possibility of the chunky wooden bed-frame ruthlessly invading my lady garden on the way through.  Felt like a proper Ninja!

Laying down gently into the bed, snuggling into the still warm crater left moments before, brain barely registering, but smugly knowing that there was another hour plus of sleep to come.  Then it started. I swear that my brain actually houses an entire tower block of apartments, as no sooner had I laid my head on the pillow, when part of my brain sparked sending messages hurtling backwards and forwards, stomping around like a herd of fairy elephants with hobnail boots. “Shut up!” I hear another section shout, then it’s like that drunken neighbour, staggering around at 3am trying (without success) not to wake the whole neighbourhood.  I swear, that cell by cell, the noisy neighbour from hell woke them all!

Whizz, bang, wallop, noisy head neighbour falls over waking all the sleeping dogs in headspace towers. This in turn wakes the babies, who are now screaming at full pelt, and shouts of “Ssssshhhh”, “Shut up”, “Go to sleep you twonk!” are bouncing mercilessly off the interior walls of the noggin. So much noise!! A pillow on the head doesn’t work as the noises are on the inside – stupid, stupid synapses, curse you all!  Should I go and have a cup of tea then try to sleep again — just stop thinking damn you!!

Eventually the swirling noise drowns out all rational thought, and I hear the brain gremlins laughing saying “Get up, you may as well get up, you can forget getting back to sleep, you must be dreaming if you think that is ever going to happen lady”.  Bugger it, still an hour to go before I HAVE to get up, but the whispering thoughts are unrelenting.  What a shit start to the day – I am seriously considering a home-made catheter to see me through tonight without incident (I have a few long party straws and plenty of plastic bottles).

So that’s me sorted, half a bottle of wine and a mug of horlicks before bed, restraining order filed on the trouble-makers in headspace towers, make-shift catheter inserted, 5 gallon drum attached,  snuggle down with some hypnotic music in the background, and relax (not you bladder, not you damn you!).

Sweet Dreams All

Pedwar xx



Twisted Lyrics and other linguistic laughs

I’m known to be a trifle deaf at the best of times, frequently mishearing the most innocent remarks and translating them in the twisted sewers of my mind to something that would be more fitting to be launched from the blistered lips of a bunch of drunken navvies brawling in a backstreet alley.

I famously (or is that infamously?) misheard a specific comment at the pub I owned, and was frequently taunted with said word hastily crammed into a relatively normal sentence to see if I picked it up. Any visitors to the area, who inadvertently witnessed these sporadic and random episodes from my regulars, must have thought that the Welsh generally speaking have their own unique way of asking for service at the bar.For the uninitiated, the insertion of  “Butt-plug” (figuratively, not literally speaking, although come to think of it neither are socially acceptable in a public bar)  into your request for a pint of beer or a cheeky vimto is not generally recommended!

This coupled with the mischievous antics of the well respected head of the local Welsh language school, I am sure, has resulted in some very bizarre conversations. Imagine the poor non-Welsh speaker, being chuffed to bits to have been schooled by a headmaster no less, in the basics of culturally acceptable greetings during their holidays in Wales. Eager to try out their new found linguistic skills, I have imagined many a black eye received in the process!

When I had my pub, twisted lyrics was one of my favourite pastimes; you know belting out alternative lyrics that once heard, you can never un-hear! I have talented gigging musician friends who can no longer sing ‘Ain’t no sunshine’, for fear of drifting recklessly into the oh so rude version of the lyrics manufactured in the cesspool that lurks in the corner of the gelatinous mass rattling round in my bony head. It cannot be unheard!!

Just don’t ask me to sing …. you may seriously regret it!

Pedwar xx




Hot Fuzz?

Did I blink? Was I in the loo when Summer appeared? It seems that one or two dry days now constitutes the traditional British Summer.  Spare a thought for all those ladies who diligently stocked up on razor blades, hair removal creams, sun-screen, and skimpy shorts, and suffered the joys of the aptly named ‘Insanity’ exercise regime, poised and ready to launch their bikini buff bodies onto the unsuspecting World. (I should add, that I was not one of them!)

To shave or not to shave – sun, rain, rain, rain, sun, rain, s … oh no more rain!  Gentleman don’t have to go through this major dilemma at the changing of the seasons, except maybe in debating whether to invest in a little beard gloss or glitter now and again as the mood takes them.

You see, there’s an art to getting the timing of your bikini trim just right, do it too soon and you’ll have to redo, do it too often and those blasted bumps will raise up and irritate the knicker line; leave too long and you’ll have to sharpen the garden shears or worse still get out the electric hedge cutters. You could get caught in-between and be scrabbling for your ‘hot-fuzz’ wax, or your second best razor (that’s if his is out sight of course), scraping and scratching in a hurry to scramble to the hot tub with your pink Martini at the first glimmer of the golden globe.

Well, I don’t fall for it anymore ladies, I don’t expect a Summer, and to be frank, with the damp walls in our cottage I need to keep as much bodily insulation as possible these days. So I say, don’t prep daily, you’re just setting yourself up for a fall. Let the fuzz run free, until you feel in your bones, then grab the hover mower and go for it in one fell swoop, seize the moment, and have your day in the sun (tram marks and all).

Hot fuzz and a plunger to sort out the bath, G&T or a bottle of bud, obligatory selfie in the hot tub, a sausage on the BBQ, and there is your summer on a plate ladies – enjoy it, you earned it.

Pedwar xx



Tosspot does it again

Well, no sooner had I finished talking about my charming tomcat’s not so charming antics, he manages to do it again!

Hearing scratching and crying at the window, I stood up from the computer forgetting I had a headset on, stumbling over said cat and promptly re-injure my writing arm. (ok so not entirely the cat’s fault this time admittedly).

I am sure he is on a mission you know. Earlier he was purring around the base of the computer where the microphone headset is plugged in, and now strangely ‘microphone not detected’… hmmm.  Do you think he is trying to tell me that he does not want me to sing today, as I had planned to duet with a friend online??

I think despite having 2 siblings, Mr T is demanding my fullest attention and is looking to cut down my time at the computer, one way or another! (Perhaps the man of the house put him up to it?).

Well Mr T (affectionately known a FFS), you may have won the battle today, but you have not won the war!  Time for some TV now, and no doubt that his highness will use his hypnotic skills to force me to change into my PJs and that ooh so fluffy dressing gown, planting himself on my lap like a baby hippo (him, not me – but then again..).  He will only relent his reign of tyranny once he realises it is supper time, then I will make my move, remaining upstanding for the rest of the evening no doubt.

He still remembers that cat’s were worshipped as Gods in ancient Egypt, and boy does he hanker back to his ancestoral roots, and wishes I would know my place!

Yes, I am a mug, I love the stupid, loving, adorable moggy, despite his solid displays of daily one-upmanship designed ultimately to test my nerves and train my body for a possible ninja attack at any time (or place).

Well, here’s to a night of truce in the household – I hear and obey you my Feline nemesis!

Pedwar xx


My Tomcat’s a Toss-pot

Am I the only one who regularly re-christens their pet? My demented tom cat is currently known as F**k’s Sake! Well, at least he thinks that’s his new name as I say it every time he tries to trip me over with his Ninja tactics (which is very many times a day).  How can one cat go from carrying a baby rabbit like a proud lion who has made his first gazelle kill, dragging it between his mighty legs, tossing his mane and generally being very pleased with his murderous ways; to seeing that ‘mummy’ has on that lovely pink fluffy dressing gown, and going all ‘puss in boots’ on me, and trying to suckle the dressing gown like a 5 week old kitten!

I guess it’s no different to the teenage boy who is strutting his stuff and acting tough with his friends to earn his street cred one minute, then crying when he can’t find his favourite bedtime toy .. sheesh.

After repeatedly ramming the closed cat flap with his mighty head, I am beginning to wonder if he has banged his head once to often! More often than not he knocks at the window with the same ‘puss in boots’ wide-eyed look, but then if he isn’t attended to immediately, the battle lines are drawn, and he is like a rampaging viking hammering at the cat flap.

True to form, on Saturday whilst the chimney sweep was doing her thing, he waited for his chance and seized it when she opened the door to get something from her car, and quick as a flash he ran in dropping a live shrew at the computer desk! This, I feel, was a deliberate stealth attack to get me away from the desk. My other half was suitably manly, as the chimney sweep offered to hoover up (????!!) the shrew which had taken to hiding (very sensibly) beneath a large wooden trunk under the desk, in amongst the tangle of wires and speakers nearby.

(Said chimney sweep looked like she was about to jump on the sofa and I wasn’t much better!)

Luckily the offer of ‘hoovering up’ was not taken up, as the brave man of the house (aww) single-handedly tracked the terrified shrew, soothed it with soft words, and gently scooped it up taking it out to the garden stream and releasing him close to the safety of the maze of tunnels at the water’s edge. Oh, my hero … sigh.

Tomcat is currently drenched after sitting (deliberately) out in the pouring rain that is the national dish of Wales. True to form, his first action after being brought into the lovely warm sitting room, was to jab and hold my legs whilst simultaneously attempting to dry his fur on my trousers (well at least I think that was what he was doing!). He is a clever cat … he knows that I don’t like this, although he thinks his new name is a term of endearment I am sure. He knows, that after several affectionate “ouch, get off, damn it, FFS etc, the only way to ensure a ceasefire is to refill his food bowl (even though he hasn’t finished what is in it already).  Feed me human – the bowl of infinity is not to the regulation height of “gargantuan mountain” stature – sort yourself out woman!

Now that my feline master has returned, I am fated to do his bidding or risk a fate more dreadful than you can imagine – he will begin to purr and drool at the same time, rendering my earlier shower and putting on of clean garments totally futile. It is all a ploy to get me to change into the Dressing Gown of Fluffiness and Contentment.  I tell you this cat is a clever, clever boy!

He is known to jump onto the computer desk and randomly walk over the keys, a little like me a guess. So there’s a question, did I actually write this, or did he?? FFS!

Pedwar xx









Exercise – pfft

Let’s be honest, there are those who are just brimming with vitality; they eat the right things, treat their bodies right, and run marathons galore. Well not this wobble-bottom right here, oh no, exercise just does not agree with me at all.

Take my attempts at Spinning Class, now that experience I shall never forget, not only is it engraved for eternity on my mind, but also my lady garden still bears the plough marks to this day! (Padded cycling shorts, wore out the padding quicker than brake linings on Hamilton’s F1 baby).

Jogging?? Seriously? Last time I jogged, there were news reports of tremors of 6.1 on the Richter Scale across Wales and into the Midlands.  Now, I am not the most well-endowed of ladies, but Heaven’s above they did give me a good slapping from my kneecaps to my chin folks.

Insanity; I’ve seen you ladies and gents, raring to go but after 30 minutes you are begging for mercy! Now me, I’d rather spur you on whilst eating a chunky kit kat and a mug of tea – get enough exercise lifting that big old pot 100 times a day (yeah baby, check out my teapot lifting biceps).  The way I see it, I’m more likely to die exercising than choking on my chocolate bar.

Now, I must admit, I did ask for a weighted Hula Hoop at Christmas (yes, I know, I must have been having a seizure of something), and actually I have still got the knack. One thing I did forget though was that hula hooping in your PJs is not a good idea – the screams could be heard across the valley as the weight circumnavigated my bra-less chest and this daft bugger would not give in until the hoop dropped! A painful lesson in the etiquette and the dangers of the hoop.

Fast and Furious typing is the most energetic I get these days; I have muscles on my knuckles that’s for sure!

Until next time my fellow Kooks, until next time ….

Pedwar xx