The Collection - The Disease

Dear Marjorie - My husband is 46 years old and spends most of his time playing with toy trains. He doesn't pay any attention to me these days.

Dear M - You have my deepest sympathy! Unfortunately, this condition is well known and is usually terminal. Very few people ever fully recover. However, you can turn this situation to your advantage! Trainaholics are so oblivious to their surroundings that you can bring as many men back to the house as you want - your man will never know!

Whatever you do though, don't get rid of your train fanatic - they are notoriously good at paying the bills! Blessings

When I first read this letter in a women's magazine I was shocked, devastated, mortified........

It took me a while to comprehend the truth in these words, but I am determined to 'clean up' my act.

No more trains!

The disease started .......... continue reading my incredibly boring history


Friday, March 2, 2012

Farewell My Duchess

What a lot has happened in the past year! I have neglected to write for this blog since committing to write a mountain of insensibly serious stuff for several other journals, with not an ounce of silliness to be found between the lines. However, a recent event has spurred me to return here once more and pour out the nonsense that I have tucked in my cheeks for later mastication. This event was both incredibly sad and yet delightful at the same time. My train set has gone.

Yes sirs, if you have been saving up your coins or robbing all the post offices within a three mile radius of your home, in order to buy this historic collection, you are come too late, it has been sold. Return those postage stamps and hang your heads, the deed is done.
It is worth noting that the event was fast and relatively painless, just that tugging ache in the chest when I look at the empty space where once sat the Duchess of Atholl. What power emptiness wields over us, filled only by our imaginings of times past and times that might have been. It’s an interesting demonstration of the fact that the only thing that can really hurt us is the fruit of our imagination. Gosh, that’s profound for a Friday afternoon! I close the door on that era of my life, but as they say, as one door closes, another one opens.

I say, ….It’s awfully dark in here!

So, congratulations anonymous buyer from Mystery Island. Thank you Lord, that my partner in grime, my fourteen children and I, may eat of pease pudding and turnip for another year.

Do not despair though you gloomy people, I will rally and you may seek me out on a couple of other interesting places. The Goad is my book in the making. Excerpts are published from time to time on the blog, whilst the doughy interior rises separately on my computer. The Goad, subtitled: Confessions of a Real Estate Con Artist, is a little on the unusual side, portraying a merciless, maniacal German who believes he is a God and who has a penchant for clever and ruthless acts of theft. It’s pretty serious stuff, especially if you have been right and royally stuffed by such a con merchant … we have. Oh! Did I just let the secret to poverty out of the bag? Fear not though, the blaggard will meet his doom once the story has been told to it’s bitter end.

Other than squirting water up llamas noses and knitting mobile phone holders for dragons, don’t laugh! I’m serious. You can see my efforts here, you will find me toiling at another new project called Natural Fibre EcoVillage, expounding the virtues of living in close proximity to other human beings. Pop along and have a gander at the plans, you never know, you might want to join!

Until I think of something else to say. Toodlepip.