Dream Hard, Dream Real

tot-416967-unsplash-There you are, Candy! I rushed down here like a Bee. Actually managed to sneak out from the meeting by faking a resignation again. So this better be a real Emergency.

-They can’t roll the numbers without you, Amelia, you know you’ll never lose this job.

-Thanks. Arghhh. You’ve kept me flying since we were teenagers. My success is our success. Now! Straight to the point. What’s up? Why the braids and blue lipstick?

-I need a thousand for a lawyer.

-No problem. But I’m slightly curious. Are you in trouble?

Amelia noticed her best friend had tiger-like scratches on her arms.

-To make it short, Candy whispered, five months ago I went to the Natural History Museum.

-Oh, no. You’re pregnant?

All the customers sat at Starbucks turned their heads around.

-It’s worse than that. I needed the toilet but I saw a naughty spider in there. i didn’t want the spider to see me naked, so I went into a corridor and I pushed a “NO ENTRY” door, hoping there would be a staff clean toilet in there.

There was a door that looked like one and so I pushed it. You wouldn’t believe it. It was the archeological workshop! No-one was in. Only bones and fossils and microscopes. It was like travelling back billions of planet earth years.

-I see.

-This small little bone… I mean, it was so cute! I couldn’t resist. I slipped it into my corset. Then I just walked out.

-You got caught?

-I WISH!

-So what happened?

Candy started looking around wearily in case there were any undercovers about.

-I took the bone home and placed it under my pillow just as it said on that Wicca website.

Then I dreamed I worked for this really cool Advertising Company.

-Go on, time’s running up.

-On the next day I cleaned it with that Japanese Energy drink they sell behind the counter. Big mistake. Weird things started to happen.

-So you’re not pregnant?

-No. The bone must have actually been an Egg. A Dinosaur Egg. It’s growing. It’s a she. I named her Polly.

-Heavenly! Shall we take it to the Zoo?

The barista at Starbucks had already lowered the music volume and customers were pretending not to listen to the girl. What a nice vibe there was in there.

-If only it could talk! The thing is, I taught her how to use my tablet, she learned very fast, and then started ordering Hollister pants that don’t even fit her! With MY credit card.

-But is Polly good to you?

-Oh yeah, she loves a tease. But I’m left with this new big lovely burden and I cannot live with or without her. I need to sue the National History Museum for letting pervert spiders in their ladies restrooms.

-Now don’t blame the cleaners! You stole the egg!

-I thought it was just a bone.

-Okay, the bone! Amelia shot a glance at her watch and then grabbed Candy strongly by the fists.

-Tell me Candy, are you taking your zombie pills?

-I can’t! Polly loves them and gobbles the whole box as soon as it’s delivered to me!

At this point fellow coffee-lovers couldn’t hold it any longer and exploded very loudly into laughter. Candy felt embarrassed and desperately lonely again.

As Amelia sighed and reached for the emergency medication sachet she kept in her bag, the gentleman two tables to the right jumped up and cried

-Wait a minute! Don’t take that! You’re perfect as you are, Candy. Here’s a check for you to pay your debts. I run the top Advertising Firm in the US and Britain, and we need someone like you to start the day inspiredly. You just need to give us a casual speech each morning at 8 AM sharp. Burnout is common in the creative industries but I know that an open mind like yours, innocent and imaginative will give us that boost to keep fighting a fierce competition.

I’ll give you 24 hours to think about it, Miss Candy. Meanwhile I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed for a Yes. What do you say?

-Well, thanks, it’s a great offer, but I need to discuss it with Polly tonight- see what she thinks about this.

 

The End.

More humour here!

The Real Yo

geetanjal-khanna-81242-unsplashIt was only two weeks ago.

Shrek- the alias for this gangsta- was cursing his demons as his new BMW had been kept at the mechanic’s for another three days. Heat wave in London. Bus packed with stupid people wearing jackets in the city oasis. He wished he was the driver, sat comfortably at the wheel puffing the air conditioning. This lucky kid was going to drive all day, with no-one to disturb his blimin’ peace, and Shrek needed to get to Brixton Prison to visit that slave who messed up. Not to pay him his respects, but just to make sure he was going to keep his mouth shut.

On top of all, there was traffic, and a chubby fellow eating smelly curry.

How long until Brixton?!

The ganster was watching the traffic lights and trying to hypnotise them with rap rhymes in his head for them to turn green. “The Traffic light is giving way – I’m the Shrek and you all wait”.

Suddently the engines stopped and a young sophisticated woman broke the awkward silence.

“If you keep on staring at my toddler he won’t be able to direct the bottle to his mouth properly”.

The lady was bullying Nisha, a 24-year-old fallen star who was on a wheelchair after being given the wrong medicine in Bali, when on her Gap year. She had lost two limbs and was only surrounded by the very wrong people.

The fallen star, a mysterious dark self-controlled beauty about to explode like a mine, had abandoned her fate to Chaos’ will and only hoped her Aunt, a neurotic spinster who wanted to get credit for looking after her, would woman up and stop abusing her in public.

At this stranger’s provocation, Nisha casually said “If the bottle were filled with organic, non gluten, fair trade disgusting worms, the bloody baby would get a grip'”.

The grey Aunt stepped in “Sorry madame, but let me tell you my niece has lost it since she lost her legs, but she’s harmless, don’t worry.”

Shrek had witnessed the whole scene and his blood was pumping. Something ticked in his head. He efficiently pushed aside the old man standing on his way to the wheelchair and pram area, and took a deep breathe. Everybody was watching him.

“YOU!” he snapped. Nisha looked at him. A second and a half of eye-contact made Shrek’s unlawful life flash like a dart. She didn’t smile. Because her eyes were smiling. This was going to be the most important red carpet rolled ahead of her in her whole life.

“You two missis don’t speak to my friend no-more, and you posh lollipop fold your pram and remember to take the baby out first if you don’t want to breastfeed him with crack next time.”

People on the bus clapped around. The bus driver was watching on the CCTV and was too distracted to carry on at the green light. Cars were impatiently beeping.

 

Nisha still didn’t smile. Her eyes had the power. She had the power. Shrek was sure  a hot biscuit, and she wished she could take off his T-Shirt and see what was underneath.

 

“My name is Shrek, but you can call me Donnie, like no-one has called me since six years. Tell me now, where are you going? I’ll take you my Princess! We got all the time in the world! It’s a new beginning.

 

“Not so fast, Shrek” said Nisha. People on Bus 2 were laughing now, and he noticed a couple were recording the scene with their smartphones. “I wanna go to the Aquarium and feed this woman to the Sharks”. She pointed at her Aunt.

Shrek took a stash of cash from his pocket and handed it to the grey lady, who almost dripped saliva at the sight of it. “This is your late pay for looking after my Princess all this time. Now you go find me on Instagram, ShrekBiteTheAir and tell all her folks she’s not putting up with your crap anymore. And they better come visit everyday. Driver! To the Aquarium please!”

And as passengers cheered and some had tears in their eyes, the driver managed a C-turn, almost a U-turn to The Aquarium.

 

*     *     *

 

The night of the events was a guilty narration of Shrek and Nisha’s life, dotted with jokes among tears here and there. When Shrek told her he had been bullied and abused by his boxing trainer during the whole of his teens, and she refused to give him the pity look- the weight that flew off his shoulders came back to him like a dragon with wings, filling him with love, forgiveness, motivation, and a “I wanna to this thing and this thing and nobody ain’t stopping me now.”

“Do you wanna delete Alfred, Smurk, Hancuffer and Bigtits numbers before we get another Johnny Walker?”

“Yes my Princess, I’ll delete them even from my Soul but we ain’t getting any more Johnny Walkers. We got to get up early tomorrow cos it’s our new life. Early Bird Catch the Fish!”

 

“That’s right Donnie! Do I get a good night kiss?”

 

The End.

More humour here.

Thanks for sharing!

 

 

Do Not Laugh

Do Not Laugh?

Luckily for us two-legged hoarders it is legal to laugh. Almost everywhere.

 

[sociallocker id=932][/sociallocker]

[sociallocker id=932]

If life has battered you like a baseball and you cannot even remember the last time you laughed from the deepest of your diaphragm, I’ve got a few tips for you to reconnect to the funny side of baked beans on the bus seat and get you and those around you pumping oxygen without the need of steroids injections.

1- Laugh at yourself. Yes, it all starts here. Laugh at your warts, two left feet and botched highlights if you want to spark the fire.

It doesn’t matter who’s around you- your enemies will be disarmed.

2- Laugh at others with Love care and affection. No need to be scornfulumanoide-548392.jpg or humiliating. Make the subject of your jokes an innocent child. They’ll love it and they will laugh too.

3- Laugh when you’re on your own. Whether it’s remembering funny things or planning a joke. Don’t worry about pedestrians thinking you need to visit the shrink!

4- Make strangers laugh.

5- Read jokes books.

6- Watch comedies and cartoons.

7- Next time you Laugh, make sure you “disconnect” from your immediate environment: leave your hot tea mug on the nearest surface… then bend over and laugh til you’re out of breathe.

8- Don’t take authority too seriously.

9- Remember every little drama has it’s funny side. Look for it.

10- Take delibertely ugly Selfies and show them around- you don’t need to post them anywhere.

11- Speak out of your mind. Set your repressed unconsciousness free. You will soon learn that the first thing that springs to our mind is usually the right thing to say.

12- Remind your friends, colleagues and relatives about that joke they made that made you Laugh so much. This will create a comedy bond!

13- Keep your lungs as healthy as you can by reducing tobacco smoke and exercising more!

Thanks for sharing and have fun!

[/sociallocker]

 

More humour here.

https://amzn.to/2GH7P79

Sewing herself Slim

 

 

tix-109368

Stella could still vividly recall the day she and three of her classmates were caught eating chewing gum and ketchup instead of going to the school meals. After the drama a dietician told her she was a “huge size ten”, squeezed her buttocks, and ordered her to follow the calorie diet on the black & white photocopy sheet- or else not to come back.

She wanted to be model, and she was only fourteen.

Her parents had given up her hopes on her becoming a Human Rights Lawyer.

A true beauty- style queen, the teenager had been taught sewing by Mary the home helper since a very young age. This asset pushed her classmates to befriend her only to borrow the garments for ” just one night out” and then pass them on to another girl instead of returning them to her.

The dietician had resorted to prescribe appetite suppressants to  the moody young girl. Pills that made her hyper, irritable and angry against Willy, who would bare going any length for a precious little minute sat talking to his crush.

Soon the pills had been removed from the market, and between auditions, applications and extra casting, Stella would experiment making “slimming drinks ” with all sorts of over-the-counter ingredients- from spirulina to shark and turmeric.[sociallocker][/sociallocker]

At 38, and having on her model curriculum only one photo shoot- which was because the chosen model had fallen ill and she was the only one available at 5 am that day- Stella survived making fashion accessories and disguises which she sold to fellow models and photographers.

The modelling world was  deceitful, inhumane and impossible to break into.  How much she now wished she would have taken up Mary ‘s offer of learning how to cook her secret family dishes.

One morning she woke up from an intense dream. Something about Willy and Mary helping her adjust a catwalk wedding dress. As she opened her eyes, the objects in her tiny trashy bedroom appeared to have a different glow, and the air was so filled with Love she wanted to chew it. “Just a nice dream ” she thought, and got back to her slimming potion making.

That same day at five she got a friend’s request from Willy on Facebook! He had become a successful financial broker- and…. damn! Had a family!

He asked to meet her that same day. She had to catch  two trains as his car was getting fixed. She had brought with her five samples of slimming remedies and was paranoid about being robbed of her million dollar secret on her way there.

Oh My God! Willy had grown old! He told her how good she looked, how she was still his highest fantasy, how boring his life was.

When she finally asked him to finance her “Slim’n’Smiling” slimming energy drink project, he took a serious look.

“I bumped into Mary at a Doctors surgery. She’s got poor health. She gave me her number. She was desperate to find you, ” her little girl “.

Willy handed her his phone and Stella broke into tears as she heard Mary’s voice.

” Come visit me please “said Mary.

Willy offered to take Stella to see Mary on Saturday, but that he needed her help on Sunday for his wife’s project.

” She’s starting a community to help disadvantaged girls learn a skill to become independent.  In this case, sewing. And Mary can teach cooking too when she gets better. What do you say?”

“Brilliant idea! Did you just say Mary will get better?” Stella’s eyes rolled.

” Sure she will, once she sees you! Now lend me that hippy scarf to show to my twelve year old, she cooked me mustard with jelly beans yesterday!”

 

The End.

 

The Price of a Passport

annie-spratt-466676-2Duncan was a happy IT programmer, and since he married Tatiana his lifetime vocation to become a Nurse had been half fulfilled.

They had met in Cyprus at a late night Hotel Can Can show and tied the knot three months later.  Duncan’s fetish for sexy hands drove him to take Tatiana to the most exclusive Gel Nails salon in Chelsea… after the “bobo” days.

“Bobo days” were what the couple called her period days when Tatiana would be ill, tortured but looked after by her husband like a toddler. This man was a gem.

Nursing Tatiana and checking her vitals every three hours- even at night- was an experience that went beyond love, sex and drug hyper that alllowed them both to start the complicated relashionship again from scratch.  Just like a spiritual self-punishing ritual.

Little did Duncan know that these aches and pains would dissapear with his cosy settled life.

A friend of Tatiana’s from the Russian Embassy had insisted and organised treatment for her condition. An oblivious Duncan paid the ridiculous Physician’s bill thinking he was redeeming her Sins.

So no more “Bobos”. Tatiana launched an online mother’s gifts business from home and her husband started to secretly miss his nursing role.  So the relationship started to go down the pit.

One day before he was about to leave work for the weekend and as he checked his email inbox for the last time, the foundations of his lovely life crumbled down. Tatiana had mistakenly sent a sexy message to him instead of to her lover, Boris, and as Duncan auto-translated the content he stood there frozen and half dead, rereading the translation from Russian in disbelief.

The whole marriage contract was intended to get Tatiana and Boris a British Passport. Nothing else. Duncan had not been making live to this woman, but wotis’ dream working on Boris’ dream of escaping Russian justice with Tatiana.

The betrayed man’s eyes started to water after staring at the screen without blinking.

-“You ok Duncan?” Said the receptionist who was about to leave.[sociallocker][/sociallocker]

-“No. It is all a lie. A lie. A Lie! Tell the boss I am sacking myself,  can’t stand this!”

*     *     *

Four months had passed. Duncan was homeless, heart-frozen and he had also made himself amnesic with a little help from alcohol. But he hadn’t forgotten his mum’s landline number, which he dialled everyday from the last phonebox that worked in Lambeth.

He didn’t want to do as she said and come back home and get his life babysitted by her and social services. Just hearing her voice,  and also herself forcing laughter to keep him going was worth the eighty pence call.

After another row with his mum about her never allowing him to study Nursing as he wanted since age ten, he put the phone down on her and went to sit at the Cemetery, on a grave- his favourite spot that resonated with his spirits.

The whiskey was almost finished and the keeper was not there to tell him to bugger off again. He heard a very weird sound. Digging? No. Not digging. Not music.

It was a Drone. A Very funny silver drone which appeared to look like some sort of futuristic fantasy creature.

The drone hovered around him, then landed on the grass. He heard his own voice saying “cheer up Duncan! The bobo will take revenge and come back three times stronger – that doctor was only a Vet! Now take these keys to your country house and sign up for the Adult Nursing Qualification starting in two weeks!”

Had he lost it? His alter-ego talking to him through a Drone?

He got up to take a closer look but the Drone danced its way off.  It had delivered the keys to his Bath second property which Tatiana always viciously insisted on keeping, and a receipt for 5,900 pounds for the local nursing academy. Underneath this was a paper in Russian which he understood was a criminal conviction paper for Boris – and he was going to post it straight to the Home Office.

 

*     *     *

The nursing course was so cool he was wishing it would never end. Having come to terms with betrayal and even joking about it, he couldn’t make up his mind about which student to take on a date.

He finally chose Nora, a girl who bit her nails and was studying to be an expert in Terminaly Ill patients- and who loved Cemeteries like he did.

The Day he took her to the same spot where the Drone Duncan had sent himself back from the Future, he told her his story. As she started to giggle hearing that “nonsense”, another Drone came down from the clouds. This time it was metallic red.

On a screen three kids were taking to her. “Hello mummy! Bring us some Rubick’s Cubes from the past!  We’re waiting for them- you can only get them from antiques auctions in 2026! We love you!”

As a tear dropped from her cheek, Duncan removed Nora ‘s fingers from her mouth and she hugged him so strong, he thought he didn’t want to be anywhere else in time nor space.

“Lets go Nora, I’ve booked you a surprise session at the Nails Salon.”

-“Oh, no, please not today! I ve got terrible period cramps….”

 

The End

More humor here.

My Tattoo Book

votenow-2-transMadhura had been walking for twenty minutes under the rain through the streets of Uxbridge. It was half six AM and the whole world had embraced her new freedom -which could be described as her favourite belongings in a small suitcase, purse and smartphone… and her fully loaded travel card.

No. She was not going to be forced into marriage with Fadil, her father’s favourite driver from the family’s mini-cab business. A decent member of the community.

 

She had spoken to Betty about her plans to leave the house. “You’ll get in trouble, you’ll end up murdered, you’ll be begging to be let back in and then they’ll treat you like crap” Betty kept warning. But Madhura wasn’t going to take any advice from a spoilt, white girl.[sociallocker][/sociallocker]

The  first thing she had to get rid of now was the scar on her hand from when she refused to come down to the living room to meet stinky Fadil, getting marked by the struggle with her father.

She had a little Tattoo book that she had started a year ago and managed to keep hidden inside the mattress. That scar had to be covered- she didn’t want to remember that year. She didn’t want to remember the terror of being “handed” to Fadil.

 

Now she started to laugh under the rain, even though she was getting soaked- Fadil, my husband? Ha, Ha, Ha! And I was going to get free taxi rides to the Market everyday!

 

She started to notice people passing by, and for the first time she  realised that pedestrians actually have stories inside, stories of captivity and regained freedom- she just wanted to hear each and every one of these!

 

Madhura didn’t quite know where she was going, maybe to a Restaurant where she could use her cooking skills to start an adult life. She was going to contact Sheila and  Betty in a couple of days, once she found a place where to stay.

After getting off a bus ride and wondering through Finchley street, and having been scorned by about four restaurant staff as she asked for a ” cook position”, she noticed a Tattoo and Piercing studio. There were Tattoo designs on the window in every colour possible, skulls, angels and elves. But she had her own Tattoo in mind and on paper.

 

“Aren’t you popping in young lady? It’s not raining inside!” The Tattooist was ever so cheerful she felt she wanted to let go and let him take charge.

 

“Sure” she said, shyly.

“Another teenage self harmer! I can fix that!”

“I’m not a self-harmer. And I have my own design to choose from. I want Cobalt Blue”

As she pulled out her precious  Tattoo Book, and fearing he might stain it with inky hands, Brad’s eyes became very serious. He went slowly through every design without mumbling a word, until the last page, then he went through it all again.

 

“What’s your name?”

“My name’s Madhura. I’m looking for a job as a cook.”

“Did you do all these?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Madhura, you ain’t gonna chop one more carrot in your whole little life again! This kind of designs are exactly what I have been looking for for the last two years. I’ll pay you three pounds per design and the Copyright is mine. I will teach you the craft. Soon you’ll be tagging punks from all over the world. As for the scar on your hand, darling you’ll make enough money here to get it sorted with surgery. Go leave your bag upstairs, I’ve got a customer coming in at seven. And put some lipstick on please!”

 

The End.

 

More Humor here.

Out Of Order

votenow-2-transIMG_1924Just when routine had become emotionally unsustainable, and Jeff’s PR Executive job made him envy all kinds of deviants, surfers and soldiers, a storm broke out on a Monday morning.

He was on his break at the local coffee shop, amused by a foreign woman who was complaining to the waiter about not being served Blueberry Syrup in her Lattee. Oh what an accent.

Before heading back to work he checked the rain through the massive window and went to the Toilet. A new Gender Neutral toilet they had built just to make him feel naughty.

As he was waiting she walked in and ignored his smile. A smile that had got him quickly up the social ladder and was even better than any techie gadget that was yet to be invented. Was he losing his appeal?

She stood in silence like a bronze renaissance statue making him feel more and more self conscious.

“After you!” Jeff cried.

She looked surprised.

” Are you a time traveler? Because real gentlemen only exist in the olden days.”

“I am indeed a time traveler, but where I come from I struggle with undoing tight women’s corsets.” He said, surprising himself.

“Watch this” she snapped and smiled. Pulling a lipstick bar out of nowhere she wrote

OUT OF ORDER

on the door, grabbed him by the collar and pulled him inside, just as very bad thunder stroke.

A Kiss. Another Kiss.

“Give me your phone” and she switched it off.[sociallocker][/sociallocker]

” Your watch” and she flushed down rhe loo his 4K collector’s item.

The cabinet was the right size to satisfy both of their repressed instincts, with UV lights taking them to forbidden land on the Baby Changing Table.

“I don’t have…” he hesitated

” Shut up! This bitch is doctored” and pointed at a scar on her belly- button.

She snatched his wedding ring and swallowed it.

He felt taken away by a vicious flood, helpless and grateful and merging into civilisation like he had never known it before.

The Blueberry woman had actually just tied her hair into a ponytail, unlike all the women before her who let their hair loose for interaction.

Jeff Adams, the PR Executive at Tengams & Co was reclaiming a missed out teenagehood.

He had no idea how long this lasted, but as he tied his shoelaces she rushed out, grabbing her Blueberry- less lattee and undoing her hair.

After the shaking event Jeff had to make the building receptionist buzz him in because he couldn’t find his Pass.

He didn’t keep this woman in his heart- he  kind of carried her in his pocket everywhere he went, now with eyes wide open to any blowing encouter a sudden weather change  could bring.

As for  the ring, his wife only noticed it was missing after three months – forcing him to lie like a kiddo about it.

But the second best reward he got from this fling was -his very annoying sciatic pain vanished like Black Magic.

About a year later, on a rainy Tuesday morning, he saw an “out of order ” scribble on his office door.

” Great, I get the day off” he thought, but opened the door anyway…. to see…. the Blueberry Latte Woman sitting on his desk with a baby who was playing with his collector’s watch.

Their eyes met like a fox’s looking into wolf’s on a hungry full moon night.

“These belong to you.” She handed his Pass, ring and… watch! and also the heavy baby. She immediately walked out before he could say anything, leaving the buggy behind.

The medical papers of the kid were carefully filed in a bag inside the buggy, and it only took him a DNA test and a cheeky lawyer to claim his father rights.

He couldn’t believe his “perfect” wife understood and welcomed the baby, as they had been trying for one for over eight years.

Since then, he always checks with the local waitress that they have a full stock of Blueberry Syrup…

The End

Thanks for sharing!

More humour here

 

“You’re a Tomboy.”

IMG_1907Hearing these words from an old buddy who knew me well was like looking in the mirror and seeing someone else.

A Tomboy? Me? Why?

” Because you can hang around with us and stand up for yourself ” he said.

I remember a girl from summer camp who was called a Tomboy by other girls, but in this case the line between “Tomboy” and ” Bully” was almost invisible.

Until I went in the underground the next morning, I hadn’t realised who I had become after 12 years of  having only boy- friends.

No, I’ve tried hard, tried it all, but I can’t be friends with 90% of women. The gossiping, the need for attention, ” daddy’s girls “, the time-clock…. and their ways to go around  a complete communication tools “blocking” -and even running away from them to another continent – when dangerous intimate secrets are exchanged….

Back to the Underground. I scanned a few women who were standing in the wagon- maybe standing makes them more masculine- and I noticed first they all carry a bag. Poor souls.

What’s in their bags? I only carry my keys, phone and purse in my pockets. What’s the point of carrying  a guilt- packed, half- eaten chocolate bar for six months back and forth ? And all that make up? Is it really the end if the World if a colleague catches you with faded makeup?

Scrolling down a little, and getting more and more amused, I spotted the uncomfortable shoes. Whether too narrow or too high the heels, does bearing that kind of Medieval punishment make you a ” Power Woman”?

Who says? Which pseudo- “Premiere-Dame”? No wonder the wages are gapped- who can achieve a fair rate of work productivity in those shoes?

For an enlightening moment I thought I had walked into the subway in my slippers.[sociallocker][/sociallocker]

As a toddler discovering a new world around her, I couldn’t resist but reading the WhatsApp a young  office worker was sending to her friend. She was actually pasting her previous nights boyfriend ‘s WhatsApps to another female friend- to get some sympathy from her, I supposed.

A man would never do that. Neither would a tomboy.

Which means- if you’re named a Tomboy you can go from A to B without getting three scratches on your car.

You don’t stain wine glasses with sticky rouge.

You don’t spend cash nor time on learning details about celebrities ‘ lives.

You don’t use a push-up bra- your breasts are fighting fit thanks to the volleyball.

Other woman ask themselves why men get into joking mood when they’re around you.

You don’t need two and a half hours of grooming before going out to a party.

You always get an early call after a one-night-stand.

And best of all, your hair, skin and nails look like a healthy baby’s because you don’t get your body vandalised at hair salons, tanning beds etc…

As I do own a favourite rag doll from childhood which comforts me when PMS, and always get given jewellery by my partners, I am past the shock after a week and I am embracing the practicality, comfort, joy and freedom of being somewhat tomboyish .

But the old buddy? Wait a minute! He’s got long hair, tight pants and pointed shoes…. isn’t he slightly queer?

Thanks for sharing!

 

More humor here…

The Other Woman

votenow-2-transI am not the jealous type. But what happened to me last Christmas changed my marriage for good.

I had been suspecting her existence for a couple of months -but I didn’t think twice when I was sent to a Seminar in Manchester for a week: “if he’s got to see her he will anyway “.

My marriage with my teenage love was too perfect and I would even say boring for Her not to appear like a flesh Ghost. I hadn’t mentioned her to anyone, all I did was get myself a small cute notepad in Cards Galore, and tracked down the clues she left behind. I secretly enjoyed this and carried on with my life.

But when I got back from that Manchester Seminar and found he was not home, I thought myself a fool. Instinctively I went through the bedroom and en suite bathroom to find a case left behind.

It was a tablet case… with no tablet. All there was inside was a collection of cards I avidly went through one by one. This woman was spoilt, and popular. All cards said something like “free ” or “gift” on them, and there was a handful of VIP business cards too.

My darker side took hold of me and I quickly went to my little home desk and sat down to find a place to hide the treasure.[sociallocker][/sociallocker]

“Mother Christmas I shall call her”.

Still trembling with excitement I took a quick shower and undid my luggage. Stan had called to say he had a last minute football ticket given by his colleague and would be back home soon.

Nobody ever reclaimed the little “Christmas present ” but the following months were a new beginning thanks to the cards.

I had used one of the Spa vouchers for an egyptian mud treatment which knocked five  years off my skin complexion . I joined a belly dancing group with her membership card and started to enjoy a kind of sex appeal only celebrities can show off. I used the VIP contacts to make my way through a career change.

And best of all, my wardrobe got revamped and Stan said he couldn’t recognize the “new woman ” I had become. So he took me on a second honeymoon where we finally conceived twins.

While we were there on a drunk night by the fireplace, I confessed my little detective book and so he said She was just a woman he was trying to sign a deal with and who lurred him into intimacy. He said he had set her up with the football fan colleague to get rid of her -and now these two were engaged.

Drunk as he was, he showed me a video of her on his phone where she is shouting at a cabbie in Spanish.

“By the way, can I ask you Jennifer – you don’t happen to have a sugar daddy buying you all this expensive sexy underwear, do you?” And I spilled the whiskey on the sheepskin rug….

 

The End

More humour  here !