Smorgasbord Laughter Lines – Comedian in Residence D.G. Kaye and a joke from Sally’s Archives

Debby Gies D.G. Kaye Writer Blog  and I are delighted to keep finding new material to make you laugh but we are very happy if you would like to join in and share your humour too..

If you would like to share your favourite joke.. and get a plug in for your blog or books.. then email it to me at (this is a family show!)

My thanks to Debby for finding the funnies…please give her a round of applause

D. G. Kaye – Buy: Amazon USAndAmazon UK    BlogD.G. WritesGoodreads: D.G. Kaye on Goodreads

Check out Debby’s new series here on SmorgasbordD.G. Kaye Explores the Realm of Relationships

And a joke from my archives…

Some of life’s observations

“I am” is reportedly the shortest sentence in the English language. Could it be that “I do” is the longest sentence?

If Fed Ex and UPS were to merge, would they call it Fed UP?

What hair colour do they put on the driver’s licenses of bald men?

Why do they put pictures of criminals up in the Post Office? What are we supposed to do, write to them? Why don’t they just put their pictures on the postage stamps so the mailmen can look for them while they deliver the mail?

Whatever happened to Preparations A through G?

I was thinking about how people seem to read the Bible a whole lot more as they get older; then it dawned on me … they’re cramming for their final exam.

Thank you for joining us today and as always we hope you are leaving with a smile on your face….Debby and Sally.

Smorgasbord Laughter Lines – Comedian in Residence D.G. Kaye and a joke from Sally.

First Debby Gies shares some of the funnies this week that she feels you should not miss.. ..D.G. Kaye Writer Blog is where you will find an archive full of wonderful posts across several subjects including writing tips, social issues and book reviews.

My thanks to Debby for spotting these.. and please give her a round of applause.

D. G. Kaye – Buy:
Blog: Goodreads: D.G. Kaye on Goodreads

Catch up with Debby’s Travel Column here every month:

And now time for a joke from my archives.

Before you open a line of questioning…. don’t be surprised about what you may find out!

A woman asked her husband if he would marry again if she died. He gave the matter some thought  and then declared that ‘yes’ he would.

‘And would you give your new wife my jewellery?’ After some thought he said ‘yes.’

‘And my mink coat?’… ‘Yes.’

‘And what about my golf clubs?’

‘No, I wouldn’t.’

‘Why not if you would give her my lovely jewellery and my favourite fur coad?’.

‘Because she’s left handed.’

Thanks for dropping in today and we hope you are leaving with a smile on your face…Debby and Sally.

Smorgasbord Posts from Your Archives – #New Bloggers on the Scene -The Case of the Missing Sock (Humour on the craft of writing) by Linda Thompson

This series of Posts from Your Archives is exclusively for blogs that are under a year old. It is an opportunity to meet new readers and to show off your writing skills.. All the details are in this post along with some tips on how to make your blog more reader friendly.

Delighted to showcase another new blogger on the scene… meet Linda Thompson who blogs about Life lessons. Through anecdotes, memories or stories (some funny, others serious), several posts are about lessons learned because of something that happened in her life.

In Linda’s third post, she explores the phenomenon that is the mystery of the missing sock.. it is rampant in our household too and I suspect from all the mentions online that it is now an epidemic…

The Case of the Missing Sock

Every aspiring writer has heard the phrase “Write what you know.” That’s all well and fine but I often feel like I don’t “know” anything that’s interesting enough to share in writing. Then I realized that some of the most entertaining pieces I’ve read were about everyday things that we can all relate to. Take my routine this morning as I was getting ready for work.

At 7:30 am I was feeling quite proud of myself. One of my resolutions this year is to get things organized the night before a workday so I am not chasing my tail. Today, my lunch was made and waiting for me in the fridge, my clothes had been ironed the night before and I was having a perfectly pleasant morning. All I had left to do was brush my teeth, put on my socks and shoes and I was good to go. And then it happened. I could only find one of the socks that went with the outfit I planned to wear.

Socks go into the washing machine in perfect pairs, like the animals on Noah’s Ark. But how often does only one come out? I’d be willing to bet it’s happened to all of us, which means it happens a lot. Where does the other one go? And what are we supposed to do with one sock?

Always an optimist, I save them in a “sock” drawer, hoping the partners will find their way home. The drawer is like a global village of socks living together in perfect harmony. Paul McCartney and Stevie Wonder would be so proud. There is a black one with bold pink stripes; a light gray one; many different styles of white sport socks; a plain black one and even a Christmas sock. We humans could learn a thing or two about tolerance and acceptance from our sock drawers.

Some socks are happily reunited with their partners when they show up in the next load of clean laundry. There’s a certain satisfaction in delving into the sock drawer, plucking out a sock whose partner has turned up, folding them together and putting them in the drawer of matched socks, happily shared with underwear. Others turn up weeks later in my husband’s or children’s drawers. (Now why do they hang onto one sock they know isn’t theirs?) Others, sadly, never make it back.

But none of that was any help to me this morning. After a quick, frantic search through all my drawers, I waved the white flag. I quickly pulled on two different socks and replaced the shoes I had planned to wear with knee-high boots.

So there are two morals to this story: 1) Write what you know. The advice is sound and what you know could resonate with others, even if it seems trivial; 2) Don’t underestimate the power of a missing sock to mess up your morning.

©Linda Thompson 2019

About Linda

Writer, fundraiser, mother, wife, owner of one stubborn Canadian mare and one orange tabby and bona fide introvert who finds it easier to express herself in ink than out loud. For extroverts and Type A personalities, expressing themselves is a natural part of their charm and we mostly love them for it. It’s hard to know what goes on in the head of an introvert or how he/she perceives the world. Follow me to see the world through the eyes of this introvert and share your thoughts with me. Extroverts welcome too!

Connect to Linda


My thanks to Linda for allowing me to share her posts and I hope that you will head over to her blog to follow and enjoy her archives.. thanks Sally.

Smorgasbord Laughter Lines – Comedian in Residence D.G. Kaye and a joke from Sally’s Archives

First Debby Gies shares some of the funnies this week that she feels you should not miss.. ..D.G. Kaye Writer Blog is where you will find an archive full of wonderful posts across several subjects including writing tips, social issues and book reviews.

My thanks to Debby for spotting these.. and please give her a round of applause.

D. G. Kaye – Buy:
Blog: Goodreads: D.G. Kaye on Goodreads

And now time for a joke from my archives…

Squirrels vs Churches

The Presbyterian church called a meeting to decide what to do about their squirrels. After much prayer and consideration, they concluded the squirrels were predestined to be there, and they shouldn’t interfere with God’s divine will.

At the Baptist church, the squirrels had taken an interest in the baptistery. The deacons met and decided to put a water slide on the baptistery and let the squirrels drown themselves. The squirrels liked the slide and knew instinctively how to swim. Twice as many squirrels showed up the following week.

The Methodist church decided they were not in a position to harm any of God’s creatures. They humanely trapped their squirrels and set them free near the Baptist Church. Two weeks later, the squirrels returned when the Baptists took down their water slide.

The Catholic Church came up with a very creative strategy. They baptized all the squirrels and consecrated them as members of the church. Now they only see them on Christmas and Easter.

Not much was heard from the Jewish synagogue. They circumcised the first squirrel and haven’t seen one since.

Thank you for dropping in today and we hope you are leaving with a smile on your face.. Debby and Sally.

Just an Odd Job Girl – Serialisation – Chapter Fourteen – Mayhew School for Boys and Girls.

This was the first novel that I wrote back in 2001 when I first moved to Spain to live. I had written short stories before and non-fiction health books, but felt the need to bring a little romance and humour into my writing.. the result was Just an Odd Job Girl

Previously  Imogen went into Central London for a much needed makeover and shopping trip, which brought to mind her friends escapades when buying a new car.

Chapter Fourteen – Mayhew School for Boys and Girls.

Miss Mayhew was a rather tall, angular, woman of indeterminate age. Her grey hair was pulled into a bun at the back of her head and metal rimmed glasses perched on the end of a beaky nose. For the entire six weeks that I worked at the school, I racked my brains to discover whom it was she reminded me of. It actually came to me some years later when I was on holiday in Malta and toured the film village where they had made Popeye. I was suddenly confronted with large, cardboard cut-out of Miss Mayhew in the disguise of Olive Oyl.

The school catered to boys and girls between the ages of five and eleven. There were fifty of these children and five teachers, which I suppose, gave a really good teacher to student ratio.

All the children appeared to have double-barrelled names, and a problem with their nasal passages. Their accents even at five years old had been cultivated in a greenhouse without the benefit of any contamination by your ‘common types’ and all of them could easily have become television newsreaders. The children were weekly boarders, and my job was to cook breakfast for them each morning and assist the head cook with lunches. She would then prepare their high tea and the teachers’ suppers.

I arrived at the school on my first morning at ten o’clock, as instructed. From the next day, I would be working from six in the morning until two in the afternoon. This suited me as it gave me an opportunity to spend the rest of the day in other pursuits. As my social life at the time was absolutely dead and buried, I was not bothered about getting into bed at nine each night and catching up with my reading.

On this first morning, the school secretary, a plump, motherly woman who introduced herself as Angela, took me upstairs to the Headmistress’s study. She in no way prepared me for Miss Mayhew or her uncanny resemblance to Olive Oyl. I passed through a dark passage with low lighting, and two benches, either side of a wooden door. Angela indicated that I take a seat on one of the seats, knocked, and entered the study. I heard murmured voices and after a couple of minutes Angela reappeared and opened the door wide.

‘Miss Mayhew will see you now dear.’

She slipped past me and returned down the corridor. I entered and found myself standing on a dark red carpet in front of a very large and imposing desk. The thin figure uncoiled itself from behind this monstrosity, and I can only imagine the terror she would have inspired in a five-year-old summoned to this dark and forbidding lair.

‘Good morning, I am Imogen Baxter your temporary cook.’

I stretched out my hand politely. Miss Mayhew looked at it as if it contained enough germs to start an epidemic and made no effort to shake it. Don’t you feel stupid when people do that to you? I withdrew my hand and stood with it firmly by my side.

‘I am well aware of who you are Miss Baxter and please note that we do not use first names at the school. The staff and all the children are referred to by their surnames.’

This was a good start! Six weeks was beginning to look like a lifetime. What about the poor little souls who arrived here at five years of age, and had to stay for six years?

‘We do not normally employ temporary staff but our assistant cook had to go and look after her mother, who has had an operation.’ She continued, without any hint of sympathy in her voice. It obviously had been most inconvenient.

‘I am assured by your agency that you are punctual, neat and conscientious. so in this instance I have relented, but I want you to know that I will be monitoring you very closely.’

With that, she rang a hand bell on her desk and went back to her paperwork. I stood there feeling a complete idiot and was about to say something when the door opened and Angela bustled in. Gratefully, I turned around and followed her back downstairs. I didn’t like to say anything too derogatory on my first day and I bit my tongue as we crossed a windy courtyard and entered a large hall.

At the back of the hall were two doors. Angela held open the right hand one and waved me through. I entered a gleaming, stainless steel, kitchen filled with the sound of clanging pots and the rumble of a food processor.

‘Cook will be here in a moment she is just in the store room I expect.’ With that Angela bustled back through the door and I was left standing in the middle of the kitchen.

I didn’t have long to wait, as a swing door banged against the back wall and a round little figure appeared. Dressed in white from top to toe, with a hat perched on the back of her head, stood the cook. She was puffing and red faced and obviously in a state about something.

‘Are you my assistant?’ she demanded in a shrill voice.

I nodded hurriedly not wishing to incur her wrath on my first day.

‘Good! Get the bloody kettle on. I’m parched.’

She grinned from ear to ear. ‘Bet you could use something a bit stronger having met the boss, but tea it will have to be.’

What a relief, I smiled weakly and looked around for the kettle. Within minutes, we were sitting in the little staff room at the back of the kitchen and I was filled in on the ins and outs of the school, Miss Mayhew and the staff. Jessie Brown had been cook at the school for ten years and said in that time Miss Mayhew had never called her anything but Brown. She thought we sounded a bit like a double-act – ‘Baxter and Brown’ – and she said that she was looking forward to working with an outsider for a few weeks.

We returned to the kitchen and Jessie handed me a set of whites that had to be worn at all times. I went back into the staff room and changed into my new attire. My hair was tied back and tucked into my round white cap. Catching sight of myself in the mirror, I decided that it was definitely not the most flattering outfit I had ever owned. I went back into the kitchen, rolled up my sleeves and asked Jessie for my instructions.

She took me through the week’s menus for the children and staff, and the first thing I noticed was that there was no meat on the menu. When I questioned Jessie about this she shrugged her shoulders and told me that Miss Mayhew had been a vegetarian all her life and insisted that the children were too. Jessie was in no doubt that the children all indulged in carnivorous activities during the weekends at home with their parents, who apparently made no objection to their offspring’s Monday to Friday eating habits.

Personally, I did not think that it was particularly healthy for children of this age to be deprived of a complete food group but Jessie, sensing my unease, assured me that she made sure that they all had a balanced diet.

She winked.

‘Don’t worry love. They get plenty of good food, and they love my sauces and the special cakes I make for their tea.’

Somewhat reassured, I began to help prepare lunch. On the menu today was vegetable pie, mashed potatoes and peas, with treacle sponge and custard for dessert. I have to admit that Jessie was a very good cook, and soon appetising smells were filling the kitchen. Before I knew it, it was time for the children to come in for lunch. Jessie went and pinned back the two doors into the kitchen against the wall and came and joined me behind the serving counter.

‘I like to make sure that children get a plate of food, so we serve each of them from behind here.’ She explained.

‘When I first came here ten years ago, portions were put on each table of ten. But I discovered that the older children were taking the best bits, and leaving the younger children with very little.’

I realised that this little woman was very much in charge of her kitchen, and I bet even old Mayhew thought twice about crossing her. There was no more time for reflection as the thunder of a hundred feet pounded across the dining room floor. A line of children appeared in the doorway, held back by an older boy of about eleven.

‘Okay wait your turn there, Brown will give the word when she’s ready.’

Every word clearly enunciated and definitely delivered with a stiff upper lip. I am sure that is where the expression comes from. Have you ever tried to talk and keep your top lip completely still? You too can sound like a 1960s radio announcer, or a member of the aristocracy.

Anyway, there is this line of fifty children and fifteen staff. Ten teachers and five matrons who looked after the children after school hours. They stood patiently and I have never seen so many children so well behaved, it simply didn’t seem natural. It lasted for about five seconds.

‘Come and get it!’

I nearly jumped out of my skin as Jessie roared into life beside me. There was a stampede as the children rushed in, grabbed a plate and held it up to have their lunch served. There was no nonsense about not eating vegetables or anything else on offer. Everyone got a healthy portion on his or her plates and they trotted off to sit at one of the ten tables laid out in the dining room. I had expected that the children would have to eat in silence, but it was mayhem, with laughter and talking, and I could see through one of the doors that plates were being cleaned enthusiastically.

‘Where is Miss Mayhew?’ I asked, puzzled that the austere woman was not in the dining-room keeping control.

‘She always has a tray in her study with a salad at lunchtime.’ Jessie smiled smugly.

‘We came to an agreement, when I said I would take care of the cooking, that this dining room and kitchen would be my responsibility, and provided I don’t serve meat, she leaves me alone.’

I quite frankly found it difficult to believe, and it was obvious to Jessie.

‘You won’t have found out yet, but Mary Mayhew is my daughter.’

I gaped at Jessie, and she laughed.

‘I was married in the war to a young pilot. He was killed just before I had Mary. I remarried twenty years ago to my Bill, but I like to keep close to Mary and this works very well.’

So that was how Jessie got away with so much. It just goes to show that you can easily misread situations, and I wondered what else I would discover in the next few weeks.

We had no more time for idle chatter, as the monitor for each table was bringing back the empty plates, and sliding them through a special hatch in the wall onto a counter next to a large dish-washing machine. They then came into the kitchen and collected pudding. They each brought with them the youngest member of their table who proudly carried back the china jug of custard. There were oohs… and aahs… as the treacle pudding, already sliced, was placed on the table. The monitors had the job of serving up this course and I could see from where I was standing that they were scrupulously fair.

By two, I had finished my clearing up duties and I left for home. Jessie was going to cook breakfasts with me for the first few days and I was glad of her help. On the menu the next morning was porridge and beans on toast. If there is one thing I have never been able to cook it is porridge and I was going to have to produce it for sixty people tomorrow morning.

Funnily enough, I was quite looking forward to it.

Apart from a couple of mishaps over the next six weeks, I learnt some valuable life lessons.

For one thing, I can now cook sixty fried eggs at a time, along with sixty pieces of toast. I can cook porridge without burning it, and I can scramble a hundred eggs at a time. Jessie was a good teacher, and endlessly patient with the children. After a time I forgot their accents and rather mature ways and realised that they were still children. The youngest of them were only five, and homesick for their mothers. Sometimes I stayed behind to help with the teas and often two or three young assistants would be helping Jessie make scones, cake or flapjacks.

Not once did I see Miss Mayhew in the dining room or the kitchen, but I know that Jessie went up to her study each afternoon with a plate of cakes and a pot of tea. I never got to know Miss Mayhew, and to this day, I cannot see any resemblance between her and Jessie. It’s a strange world.

One thing that did make me chuckle was the spaghetti incident. We were having pasta and tomato sauce for lunch, and an enormous pot of water was duly brought to the boil and ten packets of spaghetti emptied into it. When the spaghetti was cooked, it took two of us to lift the pot and take it over to the draining board. A catering sized colander was placed into the sink and the pot tipped over carefully until the spaghetti had drained out with the water.

On this particular occasion, Jessie had been called out to the dining room to sort out a dispute between the two boys putting water jugs around the tables. It was my first week and my first pasta lunch but Jessie had gone over the process with me and I was ready. Being a strong girl, I thought that I could manage to get the pot over to the sink by myself and drain off the spaghetti into the colander.

I struggled gingerly across the floor with my scalding burden and laid it on the drainer. Grabbing both handles I tipped it carefully, and watched the boiling water and the spaghetti slide into the sink and into the waiting colander. By the time that I had established that I had forgotten to put the colander in the sink, most of the pot of pasta had disappeared down the large plug-hole. There was no way that I could prevent the slippery mass from gushing out of the pot as it hung suspended over the sink and I watched in growing horror as lunch went down the drain.

Jessie came back into the kitchen just as I managed to right the pot and turn towards her. I put my hands up to my mouth and stared at her. She walked up to the sink and looked down at the one or two strands of spaghetti that lingered arrogantly on the lip of the plug-hole.

‘Looks like instant mash potato for lunch then.’ With a pat on my arm, she hurried off to the storeroom and appeared with a large tin of potato powder.

‘Don’t like the stuff, but it’s great for emergencies.’ She put the tin down and began to boil some water in two large saucepans.

‘Hope you have a good strong arm,’ she said, as she reached to a rack of utensils on the wall and handed me a giant whisk.

‘You get to make it, not me.’

That was all she said, and over the next six weeks, I never saw her lose her temper with the children or me. She did sometimes get a little hot under the collar and flushed, like the first day I saw her, but usually it was because she spent her entire time rushing around making sure that everyone was fed well.

At the end of my six weeks, I again felt sorry to be moving on. On the last day I was summoned to Miss Mayhew’s study and uninviting though the prospect seemed, I went upstairs and through the gloomy corridor. I knocked on the door and was told to enter. Miss Mayhew seemed to be wearing the exact same outfit that she had worn six weeks ago and again she greeted me from behind her large desk. This time she invited me to sit down, which I did slightly nervously. She had said at the beginning she would be keeping an eye on me and I wondered if there was any other misdemeanour other than losing all the spaghetti that she had discovered.

‘I understand from Brown that you have been very helpful and I wanted you to know that I have reported that fact to your agency.’

Surprise, surprise, but why could she not have referred to Jessie as her mother. A thin hand stretched across the table and I saw a bar of chocolate being pushed towards me.

‘It’s my favourite.’ I swear that she almost smiled.

‘Mine too,’ I uttered, astonished that we actually had something in common.

‘Well I won’t keep you. I am sure that you wish to get on.’

So, I was dismissed. I muttered my thanks and left the office, clasping my bar of chocolate in my hand. Well it takes all sorts as they say.

During the previous couple of weeks, I had been checking out the advertisements in the some of the catering magazines. I felt like a change, and perhaps this time I would look at something a little more permanent. Peter had tried to contact me twice, recently, and although I still thought about him a great deal, I felt that perhaps some distance between us would be a good idea. One advertisement in particular had caught my eye. It was for an assistant manager in a Victorian hotel in Cornwall. They had asked for details of past experience and a current photograph, and I had sent a letter containing these, just last week.

When I got back to my digs that afternoon a reply was waiting for me. Without even an interview they had accepted me for the season, beginning at Easter, and included travel instructions for my journey. They told me that the cost of this would be reimbursed on my arrival, and they expected a letter, by return, confirming my acceptance.

Here we go again.

* * *

However, before reminiscing further, it was time for bed in the here and now.

I was due to see Andrew tomorrow, at midday, and I planned my outfit in my head as I drifted off to sleep. I wondered what his reaction would be to the make-over that I had treated myself to. With that happy thought, I slept, dreaming of spaghetti and treacle pudding.

©Sally Cronin Just an Odd Job Girl

One of the reviews for the book

Jul 17, 2017 Judy Martin rated it it was amazing  · A Real Tonic!

Once I started reading this book, I couldn’t put it down. Imogen feels betrayed, fat and useless when her husband leaves her. She has to find herself a new job after being out of the workforce for twenty odd years whilst bringing up her children and being a dutiful housewife.
Imogen has an opportunity to reflect on the jobs that she had before her marriage and this is where the fun starts.
Sally is such a wonderful story teller who had me spluttering with laughter and cringing with embarrassment at some of the situations that Imogen finds herself in. The characters in the story are some that you would love to meet or love to hate, so realisticlally are they portrayed.i enjoyed this book immensely.

If you would like to browse my other Ebooks.. you can find their reviews


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Thanks for dropping in and as always your feedback is very welcome. Sally.

I hope you will join me again next week for the next chapter in Imogen’s colourful work history.

Just an Odd Job Girl – Serialisation – Chapter Thirteen – Makeover and the art of buying a car.

This was the first novel that I wrote back in 2001 when I first moved to Spain to live. I had written short stories before and non-fiction health books, but felt the need to bring a little romance and humour into my writing.. the result was Just an Odd Job Girl

Previously  Imogen takes a temporary job selling advertising for a local paper and ends up running a very interesting section … selling personal services!

Chapter Thirteen – Makeover and the art of buying a car.

It was time to prepare for my shopping trip into central London. I planned to hit the shops and enjoy a bit of a spending spree. I took a shower and decided, for some obscure reason, to put my reading glasses on to apply my makeup. Big mistake!

My hair at one time had been auburn and had flowed down my back in a heavy wave. Over the years, I had my cut shorter and shorter, but it was still shoulder length. Unfortunately, that is where the good news ended. On the advice of contemporaries and most women’s magazines, I had resorted to colouring my hair at the first indication of grey hair, and because they advise you to go lighter as you get older, I went blonde. I am not sure what you would call the colour of my hair now, as it had not received any attention whatsoever for the last six months. It was a sort of muddy blonde colour at the split ends, moving up through various shades of grey, white and reddish roots.

Not a pretty sight, and it was compounded by the bristling caterpillars that seemed to have taken root where my eyebrows used to be. This, combined with several rather long hairs that were growing luxuriously on my chin, caused me to leap backwards from the mirror and whip the glasses from my head.

Drastic measures were called for immediately. I had to revise my shopping schedule to include a lengthy appointment at a hairdressers and beauticians. It would be difficult to find a central London salon at such short notice, but I grabbed the telephone directory and desperately scoured the hairdresser section and started ringing around.

Thankfully, on my third attempt, I found a salon in Knightsbridge that had a cancellation for mid-day. I didn’t dare ask the price, it would have been very impolite. Well, the money was sitting in the bank earning very little interest and I had to consider that any self improvements that helped me get a job would be a much more worthwhile investment.

I hurriedly dressed in what I hoped was appropriate attire for Knightsbridge. This necessitated wriggling into yesterday’s panty girdle, which felt a little looser, (one can dream), but it was more likely it had been stretched by the previous days wear. My expensive skirt was held together with a large safety pin and I wore a long top over the skirt to hide the improvisation. With a jacket, the ensemble did not look too bad, but I did not make the mistake of wearing my reading glasses to view the result.

Within twenty minutes, I had walked to the tube station and was on a train rattling its way into central London. Dead on the dot of twelve I opened the door to the hair salon where I was divested of my jacket, and horror of horrors my top as well, exposing both my girdle, straining at the seams, and my safety pin. The girl who was helping me graciously looked the other way, but I am sure I did not imagine the look of amusement on her face. Of course, she was far too well trained to allow this to show too visibly. With a gleam in her eye, she calculated the great deal of money that was about to be spent by ‘Madam’ before she would be allowed to leave the salon.

I was escorted to a chair in front of a mirror that can only have come from one of those funfair side-shows. You know – the ones that make you fat, thin or distorted. This mirror was both fattening and distorting especially for the person sitting down at the time. Not only that, but it showed every blemish on my face, and each grey and white hair on my head. I assume that they wanted you to feel as bad as possible about your current appearance so that the change they were about to perform would look more stunning. They certainly had their work cut out in my case.

As if I did not feel bad enough, my stylist arrived. Why is it that the mirror managed to make me look like a vision from hell, but make her, this stick thin woman behind me, look stunning? Every blonde hair was in immaculate place. The makeup was obvious but subtle and her hands, resting gently on my shoulders, were soft and beautifully manicured. I hid my bitten fingernails beneath my gown hurriedly, and looked up into the mirror and her face.

‘My name is Monique and I will be your stylist today.’ She said in soft, encouraging tones.
If she felt intimidated by the task ahead of her, she was gracious enough not to show it.

‘What may we do for you today?’ she continued, running her fingers lightly through my mop of hair.

Was she blind? I decided that if I was going to be spending a fortune for her expertise, I might as well take full advantage.

‘I leave that entirely in your expert hands.’ I replied trying not to sound too desperate.

‘I have been on an extensive trip abroad and I am afraid everything has been dreadfully neglected, so please feel free to do what is necessary to enable me to feel less travelled.’

One has to have a cover story, and must never admit to voluntary neglect on such a grand scale as now appeared in the mirror in front of her.

‘Leave it to me.’ She announced understandingly and turned to two assistants who were standing behind her.

‘Bring the colour chart! Book the beautician for an eyebrow wax and manicure in twenty minutes, and bring a selection of magazines and a glass of Champagne for Madam immediately!’

Ah. A woman after my own heart. Confident that I was in capable hands, I relaxed into my chair and avoided looking into the mirror.

Within minutes, I was bustled about, fussed over and manipulated into several different positions. A colour was decided upon without any consultation with me. After all, I had handed over full responsibility for my transformation. Hadn’t I?

I banished any mild misgivings to the back of my mind. Whatever they did to me, I could look no worse than I did now.

Two hours later, I was ready for the unveiling. I had sneaked an occasional glimpse in the mirror during the process but had been unable to determine exactly what was happening.
I opened my eyes slowly and lifted them to the mirror. Oh my God! He did exist after all. It was me, but not me – if you know what I mean. My hair was a lovely warm shade of beige blonde, with highlights. It had been cut into a bob and lay smooth and sleek against my head, falling gently to my shoulders where it sat, plump and gleaming. My eyebrows were almost non-existent, but as I peered closer, I could see they arched delicately over my eyes. To say I was stunned was putting it mildly, and I looked up at the stylist as she stood behind me.

‘Oh thank you, thank you.’ I gushed.

She smiled knowingly at me and I suspected that she knew exactly which journey I had been on for the last few months and that it had not involved air travel.

‘Don’t leave it quite so long next time Madam. You have lovely hair and skin and it is a shame not to treat both with care.’

I took her admonishment to heart and staring down at my soft, manicured hands, I nodded a little emotionally.

I followed her to the reception desk and was whisked behind a curtain to retrieve my clothing. I came out and gave what I hoped was a generous tip to my saviour and watched her make way across the salon to her next customer. I turned to the receptionist who had my bill prepared in its own leather folder. I was beaming from ear to ear and it says a great deal for my acting ability that I managed to keep that going as I viewed the cost of my reformation. I could have restored a three-storey building for the cost. But, who’s counting? I felt on top of the world.

I found myself outside the salon amongst the bustling crowd. They milled around me, rushing to and fro between appointments and shopping. I beamed at each and every one of them. They skirted my small spot of pavement, assuming I was a mad woman, not an uncommon sight on the streets of London in this day and age.

I dragged my thoughts back to reality and was lucky enough to hail a cab that was just dropping off his previous fare the other side of the street. Time to get on with the rest of today’s project, and go and spend further money on self-improvement at the shops. My original idea, to be honest, was to hit Oxford Street with all it’s moderately priced high-street shops, but my ‘new look’ inspired me with a desire for a more exclusive choice of clothing.

Although we were only a few streets away from my destination, I was in a hurry to get there, so I stuck my head through the cab’s front window and uttered the immortal cry of serious shoppers everywhere. ‘Harrods, please.’ I leapt in the back and sat back for the short ride.

This was not a shopping trip but a ‘Showping’ expedition.’ Let me explain the difference.
Shopping is what you do in the supermarket, high street and on a weekly or daily basis.

‘Showping’ is an entirely different kettle of fish. I can best describe it by relating a story about a friend of mine called Stephanie.

One Saturday afternoon she went off to do the weekly shopping at the supermarket. She had one of those nippy little two-seater sports cars that would have needed a shoehorn and a crane for me to get in and out of. She loved her car, but was frustrated by the lack of boot space. It only had room for half the number of carrier bags of groceries that she needed for her weekly food shopping. This meant that the other half had to be crammed into the little passenger seat and in the foot well.

Stephanie worked as a successful independent business consultant and was therefore in possession of her own money; she had also recently come into a rather large inheritance. So, on this particular Saturday, she decided to make some changes. She reasoned that it was a bit daft for a woman her age to be driving around in a little sports car and that it was time to get a more suitable vehicle for her needs. It just so happened that on the way back from the supermarket, there was a car salesroom that was open on a Saturday afternoon.

Stephanie parked in the forecourt and pushed open the heavy, glass door. She glanced around the showroom and immediately saw the very car that fitted her requirements. A young salesman sauntered across arrogantly, introduced himself as Nigel, and nasally asked if he could be of any assistance. She explained that she wanted to test drive the black car in the corner and he obligingly went and collected the keys. He said he would drive, condescendingly pointing out that traffic was very heavy and that she might like a quieter road to try the vehicle out, once she had seen how the car handled with him behind the wheel.

While he had been at the desk, she had noticed him whisper something in the ear of an older man sat at a desk. They had both sniggered and she had the distinct impression that she had been labelled both middle-aged and on a thrill seeking exercise. She decided to indulge this little misconception of theirs and demurely sat in the passenger seat of her chosen car.

Nigel decided that he would give her the thrill of her life, and shot out of the showroom, across the forecourt and into the late Saturday rush hour. Holding the wheel with one hand and caressing the gear stick with the other; he dodged through the traffic. He kept glancing across at her and smiling as if expecting gasps and exclamations of horror from his companion and whistled to himself as he approached the entrance to the motorway. He shot down the ramp and joined the stream of cars heading home, manoeuvred into the outside lane and really put his foot down. He glanced across to my friend, and if he was hoping to see white knuckles and clenched teeth, he was disappointed. She just turned to him and smiled sweetly as he continued his childish little game. As they approached the next exit he indicated and cut across two lanes of traffic. He sped up the ramp onto the roundabout and was just about to cross the motorway for the return trip when my friend laid her hand on his arm.

‘My turn I think, don’t you?’ She said demurely. She fixed him with a very determined gaze and he shrugged and pulled into a convenient lay-by. My friend went around to the driver’s side and they swapped places. Nigel fastened his seat-belt and sat back prepared for what he obviously considered to be a sedate ride back to the garage. Ten minutes later, my friend pulled into the forecourt and went around to the passenger side of the car. She opened the door and Nigel unpeeled himself from the black leather seat and unclenched his white knuckled hands from the dashboard. She viewed his ashen face with some satisfaction and proceeded him to the desk at the back of the showroom where the older man sat looking somewhat puzzled at his younger colleague.

Stephanie looked down at the man and said quite simply. ‘I’ll take it.’

With that she wrote out a deposit cheque and told them to have it ready by Tuesday when she would be back with the balance in the form of a banker’s draft. With that she exited the showroom with a flourish and roared off in her little white sports car.

When she returned home, she informed her husband that she had bought a new, larger car that provided her with adequate space for shopping. He was quite frankly delighted, as he had thought it was a little inappropriate for her to be driving around in a sports car at her time of life. He naturally enquired as to what make of car she had bought, not too bothered as she was using her own money. ‘Oh!’ she said, without emotion, ‘It’s a three–door Japanese hatchback.’

Sure enough on his return from work on the following Tuesday there it was in the driveway, a three-door hatchback, masquerading as a nearly new Nissan 350 Z!

Now that’s what I call ‘Showping’!

Stephanie’s lifelong little hobby of rally driving had proved to be rather useful on this occasion, and we, as her friends, felt that she had struck a blow at the establishment for all of us.

I doubted that my next few hours were going to be quite as exciting as Stephanie’s had been, but I viewed them with as much excitement.

When I arrived home, in the early evening, and paraded up and down in front of my bedroom mirror, I was as proud of my purchases as she had been of her’s. I was due to see Andrew in the morning, and hopefully, he was going to be suitably impressed by my transformation. As I prepared a steak and salad for my dinner, I decided to leave the television switched off and continue my exploration of my past, and my talents, for the rest of the evening. I did feel rather guilty as I tucked into my rather large steak, and virtuous greenery, as meat was the worst thing I could be eating while reminiscing about the Mayhew School for Boys and Girls.

©Sally Cronin Just an Odd Job Girl

One of the reviews for the book

Jul 17, 2017 Judy Martin rated it it was amazing  · A Real Tonic!

Once I started reading this book, I couldn’t put it down. Imogen feels betrayed, fat and useless when her husband leaves her. She has to find herself a new job after being out of the workforce for twenty odd years whilst bringing up her children and being a dutiful housewife.
Imogen has an opportunity to reflect on the jobs that she had before her marriage and this is where the fun starts.
Sally is such a wonderful story teller who had me spluttering with laughter and cringing with embarrassment at some of the situations that Imogen finds herself in. The characters in the story are some that you would love to meet or love to hate, so realisticlally are they portrayed.i enjoyed this book immensely.

If you would like to browse my other Ebooks.. you can find their reviews


Amazon UK:

More reviews can be found on Goodreads:

Thanks for dropping in and as always your feedback is very welcome. Sally.

I hope you will join me again tomorrow for the next chapter in Imogen’s colourful work history.

Just an Odd Job Girl – Serialisation – Chapter Ten – Cat Burglars and Insurance Fraud! by Sally Cronin

This was the first novel that I wrote back in 2001 when I first moved to Spain to live. I had written short stories before and non-fiction health books, but felt the need to bring a little romance and humour into my writing.. the result was Just an Odd Job Girl.

Previously Imogen ends up running a pub on the Isle of Wight and ends up enforcing the rules with a pick axe handle.

Chapter Ten – Cat Burglars and Insurance Fraud! by Sally Cronin

We found a lovely small flat in Southsea, a few roads back from the sea. It had a bedroom, bathroom, separate kitchen, and a combined living and dining room. It was nicely furnished and felt like our first real home. The only drawback was the three Spanish students who lived above us. They were used to staying out late and would arrive home about three in the morning and proceed to indulge in a spot of Flamenco dancing, or so it sounded. The tap of three pairs of high heels on wooden floors had a rhythm to it that was a little like a dripping tap. We would bury our heads under our pillows, but eventually we learnt to live with this minor inconvenience.

Not so their cat, a black and white tom with a distinct lack of regard for other people’s property, particularly of the edible kind. Over a period of some weeks, I became increasingly alarmed by the amount that Peter was eating. I got into the habit of cooking two meals at a time. This worked very well for stews, roasts, and pasta dishes. We would take one day’s portion and I would leave the remainder to cool on the kitchen table before putting in the refrigerator for the next day.

The one thing that Peter would do about the house, was to clear the empty plates away and wash up while he made us a cup of tea. We would then settle down on the sofa and watch our tiny television until it was time for us go to bed. I would take the empty cups out to the kitchen and put the next day’s dinner away. I began to notice a marked difference in the original amount and the quantity that I was putting in the refrigerator. At first, it was only a slight difference and I assumed that Peter was helping himself to an extra spoonful or two when he was making the tea.

After two or three weeks, it became more than a spoonful and in fact there was barely enough to feed one person the next night, let alone two. I decided to tackle the problem discreetly, as I knew what Peter could be like when he was criticised. He did not take kindly to having his actions questioned, which was another little sign I managed to ignore for twenty-five years.

‘Darling, you seem very hungry in the evenings, would you like me to do a few more potatoes and vegetables’ I thought that was diplomatic enough.

‘What do you mean, hungry.’ A belligerent look swept over his face.

‘There’s too much on the plate as it is, I am putting on weight and I have been meaning to talk to you about it.’

Was this self-denial? Here he was, helping himself to our next day’s dinner and having a go at me for feeding him too much and causing a weight problem.

Of course, a full-scale argument ensued and everything that had been stored and filed for future use came out into the open. I slept on the sofa that night, and Peter slammed around the flat until midnight. It did have an upside however, in the form of verbal abuse, hurled upwards to the occupants of the upstairs flat who unfortunately chose this night to hold a fiesta with much heel tapping and laughter at four in the morning. There was a deathly silence then giggling. We could hear bare feet slapping across the floors, as beds were sought and then quiet, which was to thankfully last until the girls moved out a month later. However, all hell was to break loose in our apartment before they left.

After the argument, we made up and I started making one meal at a time and cooking every day. We did have fish and chips on Saturday, after the pub and peace reigned in our little palace for a while.

I was doing temp work at the time and was moving around the place quite a lot. I was asked to work late one night, with an insurance company that was behind in paying its claims. The day before, I had made two dinners, as before, and put the half dish of lasagne on the table to cool. I had forgotten to put salt on the table and returned to the kitchen to get it – much to the surprise of the cat with it’s head buried in the béchamel and cheese sauce. It was so enraptured with my cooking that it did not even look up. I was so startled; I just stood at the kitchen door and screamed my head off. The cat leapt up with arched back and hissed at me. It looked pretty ridiculous really, with a ring of white sauce clinging to its whiskers and a piece of tomato hanging from his mouth.

Peter shot into the kitchen and the three of us stood in a frozen tableau. Peter was the first to move, grabbing a tea towel from the back of the door, he flung it at the cat. Obviously, my lasagne was a prize to hang on to. The cat actually grabbed another bite before leaping nimbly onto the sink and onto the windowsill. We rushed to the open window just in time to see the cat climbing up the ivy that covered the front of the house. With an arrogant backward glance, he gracefully slid into Spanish territory and we were left hanging out of our window, powerless to catch the cat burglar.

This solved the mystery of the missing food. The cat had looked very much at home, and it was obvious that this was not the first time it had helped itself to dinner at our expense. Short of causing an international incident, especially after we had introduced our neighbours to Anglo Saxon vocabulary, we decided to keep the window closed – to a level that allowed air, but not feline, entry.

I thought it was all very funny, but Peter was not amused. He was all for going down to the surgery immediately and having all sorts of tests conducted to find out if he had been infected with cat flu or similar. Of course, it was entirely my fault, for leaving food uncovered, and for not closing the window. I did point out that I had not expected to be burgled on the third floor of a building, but apparently this was not a permissible excuse.

Despite the increasingly volatile relationship between us, we stayed there for nearly a year. In that time I worked for a Temp agency and found myself using my rusty secretarial skills around the city. Most of the jobs were boring and repetitive but of course, being me, there were one or two incidents of note, even among the mundane tasks allotted to the transient temp.

I worked for two insurance companies in my first few weeks with the agency. My first assignment was in the typing pool, where I was expected to spend the entire day typing claim cheques. These were usually payments as a result of motor accidents, and some of the cheques were for several thousand pounds. You had to pay strict attention. I had an electronic typewriter that I was unused to, and in fact, looked on in envy by the girls pecking away on their manual versions. I learnt to master the beast that seemed to have a mind of its own. Keep your finger too long on a particular key and you ended up with a cheque for a million pounds instead of a hundred. All the cheques were numbered and any ruined ones had to be logged and given in at the end of the day to the accounts department. I did not get off to an auspicious start.

The cheques came in packs of fifty. They were joined together and had perforations between each cheque. On my first day, I managed to produce seventy acceptable cheques and thirty cancelled ones. The supervisor glared at me from behind her glasses and muttered something about temps and waste of time, I didn’t quite catch it all. I sidled out of the door vowing never to return. I half expected a call from the agency telling me that I was not welcome back anyway, but the reprieve never arrived.

The next day I found myself, once again, back in front of the gleaming monster. The curved keyboard reminded me of rows of teeth, determined to bite my fingers off at the first touch. However, for some reason, I started to get my eye in, and on the second day I produced ninety-five perfect specimens and only five rejects. By the fourth day, I was producing one hundred and fifty cheques a day with barely an error. The supervisor had thawed somewhat and the muttering under her breath had been silenced. This silence did not extend to the other temps that had been drafted in to clear this backlog of insurance claims.

Three of them cornered me in the ladies at coffee break, standing with arms crossed and grim expressions; I wondered what I had done to incur their displeasure and smiled sweetly in an effort to lighten the atmosphere.

A blonde, with deceptive baby blue eyes, leaned closer to me after assuring herself that the toilet stalls were empty.

‘What do you think you are doing?’ she hissed at me between clenched teeth.

‘We have been here for six weeks and they’ve been very pleased with our work.’ She continued, glancing at her companions for moral support.

‘We only produce seventy-five cheques a day. What are you trying to do, talk yourself out of a job, and ours along with it. The backlog should have kept us all here for the next six weeks until Christmas.’
She took a breath and imparted the final shot.

‘The supervisor has told us all to increase our cheques per day or she will have us replaced, you have to slow down now or there will be trouble.’

Right! Here I am, so desperate to get out of this place that I have perfected the art of cheque production, and these three bimbos want me to slow down so that they can stay here forever.

The problem with me is that I have never been much of a sheep and although I did not feel that a temporary job was worth getting into a fight over, I did have a problem with dishonesty.

Both the insurance company and the temp agency were getting fiddled here. These three girls were deliberately working slowly, taking three times as long to do the job as was necessary, and therefore taking three times more money than they should.

I pushed past them and returned to my desk. I carried on working at my normal speed and produced my one hundred and fifty cheques as usual. I also a produced a couple of other things. I earned glares and ostracism from my three temporary colleagues and my first genuine smile from the supervisor at the end of the day. I don’t think she missed much at all and I was proved correct when three replacement staff were drafted in to the department the following Monday.

I was given the task of bringing them up to speed and ensuring that an acceptable number of cheques were produced each day. The job was completed in three weeks and as my three erstwhile colleagues had predicted, we only had three weeks left until Christmas. Most offices did not take on temps at this time of year, and I was told by the agency that there would be some vacancies in department stores for the sales in January and that they might not be able to find me anything until then.

I adjusted my Christmas present list, which left Peter with a pair of socks, and my parents with a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers. My responsibility was to pay for the food each week, so I hurriedly rang around both sets of parents and siblings to wangle an invitation for Christmas lunch and Boxing Day. I was marginally successful, but it looked like fish and chips for New Year. Then I received a call from the Agency.

With just two weeks to go before Christmas, an unusual vacancy had come up. A receptionist–secretary for a ‘Funeral Director and Chauffeur Driven Limousine Service’. Not the most cheerful of occupations at Christmas time. But, beggars can’t be choosers. The thought of Peter’s face, when he opened his solitary Christmas gift, convinced me, and I duly arrived at Flanagan’s Funeral Directors on December 15th.
©Sally Georgina Cronin Just an Odd Job Girl

One of the reviews for the book

Dec 04, 2015 Jo Robinson rated it it was amazing

Just an Odd Job Girl is the uplifting story of Imogen. Cast aside aged almost fifty by her husband who chooses a younger wife to replace her she faces beginning life all over again. A new and most cool phrase totally to me in this book – the fast tracker – a great name for those gorgeous young women who forego the whole long term working to succeed in life together as a couple in favour of swiping an already successful older man from the woman who has put in all the years to gain the success. Imogen’s self-confidence is low as it can be, but she heads off to a personnel agency that specializes in placing the more mature job seeker to see if they can help her find work in spite of her not obviously stellar curriculum vitae. Twenty four years of “only” housewife and mother. There she is interviewed by Andrew Jenkins, who rather than dismisses her on the basis of her tiny CV, encourages her to tell him what she liked or didn’t like about the few jobs she did have many years back before she stopped working in exchange for being a stay at home wife and mother. And then the fun begins!

I laughed so hard I almost cried a few times reading Imogen’s memories of former jobs and employers. She’s crazy in the most wonderfully inspiring way. Chasing thieves and fabulousness in a funeral parlour and dentists office to name only two of the places she showed her wonderful character and savvy in on her Odd Job Girl trip. The apprehending of the shoplifter just has to be read! In the telling of her own life, Imogen realizes her value though. While this book is a really fun romp, it’s also very poignant and touching. So many women around the globe really do get kicked to the kerb after years of thinking that they married their true love, and would be together forever. Generally they feel old and ugly, all used up and not much use for anyone or anything, let alone a meaningful career and life.

This is a book with a happy ending, and an inspirational happy ending at that. It shows that all is never lost until the very last breath that you take. It shows that everyone has fabulousness within us, and all it takes is to recognize it, grab it, and have a ball with the amazingly wonderful person that you are. It’s not all about age, it’s all about feisty and real. Five out of five stars and a very hearty one hundred percent recommendation. A nice one for the guys out there too – especially if you have ever been a target for a fast tracker. There’s a whole lot more to life than a little bit of nubile.

If you would like to browse my other Ebooks.. you can find their reviews


Amazon UK:

More reviews can be found on Goodreads:

Thanks for dropping in and as always your feedback is very welcome. Sally.

I hope you will join me again next week for the next chapter in Imogen’s colourful work history.

Smorgasbord Laughter Lines – Guest Comedian D.G. Kaye and a joke from Sally’s archives

First Debby Gies share some of the funnies this week that she feels you should not miss.. ..D.G. Kaye Writer Blog is where you will find an archive full of wonderful posts across several subjects including writing tips, social issues and book reviews.

My thanks to Debby for supplying the visuals today.. please give her a round of applause.

D. G. Kaye – Buy:
Blog: Goodreads: D.G. Kaye on Goodreads

Now time for a joke or two from my archives….

Polish Eyetest.

A Polish immigrant went to the DMV to apply for a driver’s license.

First, of course, he had to take an eyesight test. The optician showed him a card with the letters:

‘C Z W I X N O S T A C Z.’

“Can you read this?” the optician asked.

“Read it?” the Polish guy replied, “I know the guy.”

Home Depot Lost and Found.

Two guys, one old and one young, are pushing their carts around at Home Depot when they collide.  The old guy says to the young guy, “Sorry about that. I’m looking for my wife, and I guess I wasn’t paying attention to where I was going.”

The young guy says, “That’s OK. It’s a coincidence. I’m looking for my wife, too. I can’t find her and I’m getting a little worried.”

The old guy says, “Well, maybe we can help each other. What does your wife look like?

The young guy says, “Well, she is 27 yrs old, tall, with red hair, blue eyes, long legs, big boobs, and she’s wearing tight white shorts.  What does your wife look like?”

The old guy says, “Doesn’t matter — let’s look for yours

We hope you are leaving with a lighter look on life… thanks for dropping by..

The Chuckle Sisters!

Smorgasbord Laughter Lines – What Were They Thinking Part Two and a joke from the archives

And a joke from the archives

Oil be there!

Decades ago, there was a huge fire in one of the oil fields in Texas. The boss of the field contacted Red Adair, but was told that he couldn’t do anything as he was booked up for weeks. But Red Adair gave the Boss the telephone number of his cousin, Green Adair, in Ireland. So the Boss phoned Green Adair, who said he and his team would be over on the next available boat.

A few days later Green Adair and his team drove their transit van off the boat and travelled without stopping to Texas. Arriving at the oilfield, the boss tells him that the best place to see the fire was up on top of a nearby ridge. So Green and his men pile back into the Transit and drive up to the edge of the ridge.

After a few minutes, the Transit slowly moves off the top of the hill, gathers tremendous speed, and plummets right into the centre of the fire. Green Adair and his men jump out, and start stamping on the fire and blowing at it furiously. After a couple of hours, the fire is out.

The Boss is delighted and goes to see Green Adair and his men. “That’s the most amazing thing I’ve seen in my life! Incredible!!!” says the Boss. He willingly and delightedly gives them a cheque for $5 million, and asks Green Adair what’s the first thing he’ll do with the money. “Get the feckin’ brakes fixed!!!” came the reply…

I hope you are leaving with a smile on your face…. thanks Sally.

Smorgasbord Blog Magazine – The Weekly Round Up – Easter Parade Invite, Bloggers Bash Voting, And all the fun of the fair.

Welcome to the round up of posts on Smorgasbord this week of posts that you might have missed.

One thing that you probably have not missed, since Easter Eggs have been in the stores since January is that next weekend is the religious festival and also a time for families to get together and celebrate the extended holiday weekend.

As you know I do like to throw a party occasionally and this Easter I have decided to hold a traditional parade.. well two to be exact as they will be posted on Saturday and Monday.  To be in the parade you need to send me a photo… several already have so I only have a handful of places left on the floats...All the details are in the post and it is easy to enter…..

The time for the Blogger’s Bash in June has come around very quickly and as part of the event is the annual blog awards. There are some amazing bloggers included in the categories as there are every year. Very honoured to have been nominated along with so many from our community. Now it is your opportunity to vote for your favourites.

As always I am very grateful for your support and delighted to hear from you every week. Also my thanks to Paul Andruss and Carol Taylor this week for their input which is appreciated…

And here are the posts from the week….

With Easter next week I thought that you would enjoy this five part short story over the two weekends from Paul Andruss, first published in January 2018… Set in Ireland in the 1930s it follows the life of a young man with a mysterious past who lives in The House by the Sea.

Part One.

Part Two

Carol Taylor and her sous chef, granddaughter Lily give us two recipes for a cake and biscuits for Easter…

Sally’s Personal Stuff

This week’s One Hit Wonder is the Halloween favourite.. ‘Monster Mash’.

This week a look at Revenge…in the R’s of Life…. and it is never really sweet…

Colleen Chesebro is on hiatus as she house hunts but she asked that we continued to share our poetry.. Here is my weekly contribution… and etheree  ‘Age Defying’

This week’s prompt for the Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction was ‘Beggars Can’t Be Choosers’


Two parts this weekend in the updated version of Size Matters… measurements, motivations, portion sizes and good fats.


This week L.T. Garvin shares her memories of her best friend in Junior High School and their aspirations to enter the talent contest with the classic Proud Mary by Ike and Tina Turner….keep on rolling and enjoy.

Welcome to the third post from the archives of Donna W. Hill and this week Donna shares the workings of a canal and the period of transition between water levels as an analogy for the times in our life when we are in limbo between events. In this case the treatment for her guide dog’s chronic disease.

The last in the present series from the archives of Norah Colvin which is actually reflections on learning by her daughter Bec, and written when she was 26 in 2013

Susanne Swanson takes us on their camping trip to Mora and Rialto Beach Olympic National Park in Washington State.

Special Feature

Author Stevie Turner asked 18 authors questions about significant life events that would inform and inspire… and over the week or so I will be featuring the contributors. The anthology’s proceeds are being donated to Cancer Research, and at 99p/99c it is very good value.

You can buy the anthology for only 99c:

And on Amazon UK for 99p:


New book on the shelves.

Author update