Bleating Hell

I just found out on Home Office Mum's blog about her marvellous new invention called a Bleat - where twitter and blogs collide. She says "A Bleat is a random thought you have (which you'd like to share) and is too long for a tweet and not quite long enough for a blog post in its own right. I was going to call it a Bleet, but according to the UrbanDictionary, a Bleet is: 'When A male rubs his penis on the outside of a womans vagina. No insertion only rubbing inbetween the vaginal lips of the woman. the step befor sex.' There is so much I don't know. Sigh.

Anyway, Bleat is better as people can then say: "What are you bleating on about?" See? Perfect. So please feel free to create your own bleats and set the trend in motion. I wonder if I can copyright it..."

It was at that point I realized I was born to Bleat so here I go:

Grey hair looks good...on Helen Mirren and that's about it
#goinggrey I don't mind the recent emergence of wrinkles, bags under eyes or the fact that my knees are going a bit saggy like a partially deflated souffle. What I do mind is going grey - right now it's just the bits near the ears and I am assaulting it with expensive high lights. Only the grey hair has this wierd wiry texture like wire wool which makes it aesthetically unappealing. I don't think grey hair is 'distinguished' or makes me look 'authoritative'. To be honest it's at times like these that I'd swap the grey hair for a face full of acne. I mean is there anything worse than grey hair? It's like your cells saying: "Look love we can't be bothered to keep producing hair colour. I mean come on you old mare you've fulfilled your biological duty by having kids and now you're fit for the knackers yard." What do you think?

#celebrityweightloss I'm so over it. I mean come on Kelly Osbourne if I had a colonic irrigation three times a day, plus a chef to cook me delicious low fat meals and some Nazi to scream at me and make me do a hundred press ups from the comfort of my home gym then believe me I'd manage to lose 30lb. What's difficult about losing weight for non-celebs is the near impossibility of motivating oneself to go to the gym in winter (too cold) and in summer (the weather's so nice why would I want to be cheek by jowl with a bunch of sweaty men in tight spandex stinking the place up on the running machines?) A diet book is waiting to be written, possibly by me: Lardasses Get Off Your Butts: A Guide to Losing Weight for People On An Income of Under $400,000 a year

#branstonpickle You don't know what you've got till it's gone eh? Now until recently there was a British aisle in my local supermarket which sold spotty dick in tins, a variety of mindblowingly delicious biscuits including Penguins, chocolate digestives and caramel hobnobs. Now obviously no one apart from me was buying this stuff because I'm pretty sure no American knows what to do with tinned spotty dick, or for that matter baby poo coloured Piccalilly. I have now found that the British shelf has basically been shelved and now there are taco shells in the place where Branston Pickle nestled beside Bisto Gravy. No you'll be pleased to know I didn't do my nut and go psycho in the supermarket holding the manager ransom until he said he'd reinstate the British shelf. It was a Code Orange situation, yes, but I could see their dilemma, there was not much profit in the delicious stodgy fare. The issue I'm now faced with is that unless I get it mail order I cannot get Branston Pickle for love nor money. What the hell am I going to do? Alright, I know, get Branston Pickle to sponsor my blog and get them to send me a lifetime's supply. But until that happens what do I do folks? Make my own bleedin' pickle from scratch? This is serious and I don't need any sarcastic comments about this issue.

#kidstelevision Luckily we have disconnected the TV so the kids only watch movies on Netflix. But before that they were obsessed with a programme called iCarly which basically featured very bright colours and lots of screeching. Bring back the old days I say, when you could pitch a kids' TV programme thus: It's about a teddy from darkest Peru who likes marmalade who lives with a human family and is always breaking stuff. Paddington Bear I will love you forever. They just don't make em like that anymore. Sob.

#goingsenile I've always been forgetful but now things are getting ridiculous. These days in the morning I say to my kids: "Who am I again?" and they chorus "You are Emma Kaufmann from England." Still, as long as I have the kids they'll be able to tell me what year it is etc.
And now I'm gonna tag these people to give me their best Bleats:

Lori at RRSAHM

The divine Mrs Woog

4 kids, 20 suitcases and a beagle

Misssy Martin

Note From Lapland

Very Bored In Catalunya

But if any of you want to have a good bleat, be my guest and go right ahead!