What is it with Trolley Dollies?

I am the nicest passenger on board. Picture the scene...I'm not the ex UN worker who asks for tea when it's not on offer or refuses to move for the couple with the baby who want to sit together. I'm not the couple with the baby who want to sit together and spend the first forty five minutes after they embark trying to change their seats. Despite being as together as they can in row 14 and 15. Why do they need to be any closer? Sit down and stop being so pinched and anxious looking.

So there I am being as pleasant and polite as I can. Please, thank you, no thanks, here's my rubbish...all that. Couldn't be nicer or less demanding if I tried. But maybe next time I'll try the opposite. Can I have a blanket...another pillow...more tea...another gin and tonic. Because the former behaviour only gets me the distinct feeling that the trolley dollies are sneering at me. What for? I'm trying to make their job as undemanding as possible under the circumstances. But no, I watch closely and it seems the more demanding you are, the bigger their smiles and the more pleasant their manner. Frigging bending over backwards for these awkward bastards. All I get for being nice is a patronising sneer. There's something backward about the trolley dolly behaviour, that's for sure. Maybe they get their revenge behind those stupid curtains when they spit in drinks. Who knows.

For now though, they are forgotten and I'm in San Francisco and it's hot. Maybe I'll try out some new awkward behaviour on the flight home. Maybe Animal Disco will have the answer. After all, she's not busy blogging....oops, was that a bait?

Sausages

This entire post is dedicated to the fact that I cooked the Animal Disco's (As I've said before, if I were a better blogger I could do you a link... you'll find it on here. The clue's in the title) delicious store cupboard recipe the other night. Mmm. And I haven't yet emailed to tell her personally. But the proof is in the sausage and it was even scoffed by both sons for whom one had the veggie version (patent mine) and both are normally found to fake very dramatic vomiting when faced with a stew-like dish. Top marks, Mel.

Does that count as a good blog bait or is it cheating? I'm exhausted with having to traipse around Topman for over an hour buying a prom dress for Number One son...well a suit, but you get my drift.

If only she could join me for a pick me up gin in the Ev in ten minutes life would be perfect.

Bye, bye Love.

Especially For You...

This one's going out to Mel in Percy Street (or wherever). A big Bowie shaped shout out. I've got the hangover from hell (otherwise known as the eighties). Yes, something very strange happened in God's own city this week...

It started off on Sunday night in McMillans...Lenny on the door in a dashing pink top, meeting and greeting. I think the Muscatelli sisters were in a cage dancing but I was too drunk to tell...or care. The highlight was everyone on the dancefloor for Ain't Nobody. Bless Chaka Khan...and Brenda King for that matter.

So, of course after a wonderful night, we nursed our hangover in The Tabac. All day. Over the same pot of tea, virtually. Maybe Mark Jones had a coffee. But Elaine definitely got her finger stuck in the coffee grinder and Rita definitely humiliated at least four of us. A short trip down Bold Street and we were soon back up the hill in time to throw some new drag on and head to The Ev for a few quiet drinks and to slag off whoever wasn't sitting with us in the Tabac that day. Or one of Tom's girlfriends. Same difference.

Same again Tuesday. Maybe there was some drama/crisis/Jazz went mad in the Kwiky nonsense in between. It's a blur. By Wednesday we were bright, perky and shjushed up enough to take ourselves to Gay Town. Otherwise known as Jody's. Sol danced like...no one else we'd ever known. Carlo took the piss out of...everyone . And Bammer and Sebonga stepped up to...the podium. Us girls? We "walked like a man". With Divine of course. No, we didn't go over to the dark side! We are fag hags and staying that way.

A Thursday afternoon spent in Miss Selfridge. Mel got away with bringing back a ten year old dress (which was their own fault for dragging out again this season) and we were ready to hit The Mardi. Fashionably late of course. Or was it because Sol and Mel couldn't work the living room door? That or Tom had cooked Spam again...

At the Mardi we spied McCulloch having a heated debate in the corner with Wylie. Who cares who was in The Criucial Three? They're playing Love is a Wonderful Colour and we've got to dance. Last in. Last out. And we climbed the hill, humming Nina Simone and stopping only to get some pakoras and we're still only at the top of Bold Street. Fancy coming back to mine, Dollface?

So, now it's Friday night and that was the week that was. This is the God's honest version of how Liverpool looks at the moment. Have I forgotten anything? You tell me.

N.B. Names have remained the same to protect the guilty.