Naughty Letters to Ms. Mac

Countless noble souls (and many fluffy kittens) sacrificed their lives during the making of this blog. We think you will agree they were worth it.

Friday, November 30, 2007

Purely Hypothetical Question to Ms. Mac

Dearest Ms. Too Busy And Important To Talk To Antipo Today,

If you could choose anything you wanted for Christmas, and in the event that that anything just happened to be an imaginary packet of genuine TimTams, would you hypothetically choose:

- Double Chocolate

- Chewy Caramel

- Chocolate and Raspberry

- Sticky Vanilla Toffee

- or Poo Flavour?

Love and Innocent Whistling,

P.S. Hint: A wise soulmate would feel disinclined to choose Sticky Vanilla Toffee, owing to a mysterious tear in the packet, and some of the contents unaccountably missing.

Early Froiday Start

Dearest Hospital Hanger Out At,

Kids started school at 8 am today and Mr Grumpy is having his Froiday off, so I took the wee cherubs to their place of learning in the car and got to the orifice sufficiently early to make three calls to Australia! Those always put me in a good mood! They call me "mate" and say things like "it was a pain in the arse". It also explines woy Oy'm toyping in a 'stralian accent tahday.

But firstly had stopped at the village market where I discovered a new fishmonger, with an impressive range of wares. Oh my God! I went mad! and bought three tasty ready-made things for my lunch!

1) baby octopus salad in a tomatoey spicy dressing,

2) brandade de morue (creamed potatoes with salt cod and lashings of garlic), and

3) some tiny stuffed red peppers, just like your Italian poppadews, but stuffed with tuna instead of cream cheese.

Oh sorry, have I turned your stomach?

Got a rugent (that's even more urgent than just urgent) translation to do first, will get back to you with more from my scintillating loife in half an hour.

Lurve and fishy kisses,

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

Geneva! Zürich! Next Stop Gudmont!

I feel I should give an enthralling account of my trip to Geneva and my weekend in the company of three Celestial Goddesses, but somehow the sweet memories of those precious, fleeting moments are too valuable to share with my grubby little readers. I will just say that, apart from all the inevitable FUN!, cocktails and good food I enjoyed with Ms. Mac, Doc and Vivi Dispatches, I also managed to expose to them my sordid underbelly, and subsequently bathed in the comforting, cloying caramel of their understanding, and wise womanly words. Also, if I don’t sing their praises and give them some world-wide exposure to my kajillion readers, they will bitch and whine until my ears bleed.

Ms. Mac picked me up at her local railway station in THE NEW CAR!, and drove me back to her palatial home in The Village of the Damned. Hint: If any of you are ever lucky enough to be taken for a ride by The Lovely Ms. Mac, just be warned that she likes to switch on the heated seats gizmo without telling you first! As I was chatting away nineteen to the dozen, and unburdening my crappy day onto her sisterly shoulders, I became aware of a strange, if extremely pleasant, sensation of warmth in my buttock region, and foolishly attributed it to the strong emotions engendered by our passionate reunion. I naturally reflected aloud to that effect. You can imagine Ms. Mac, that paragon of kindliness and civility, having a good old rollicking, sniggering laugh at my expense. Still, what are friends for, if not to be a laughing stock? I hope I am not too mean-spirited to deprive Stella of her simple pleasures.

I had been swindled out of a good lunch by my workaholic colleagues in Geneva, so by evening I was ravishing. Darling Ms. Mac arranged an elegant tray of delishimo antipasti and good Swiss bread, then woined and doined me with a rich and heavy Chilean red wine. I relaxed for the first time in days: relief and utter joy oozed from my every pore. (This is not a pretty sight, so please don’t try it at home. Luckily Ms. Mac’s maid was on hand with silken cloths, to mop up the mess).

Kisses and French sweeties were bestowed upon her adorably handsome and alarmingly tall offspring, before we locked them back up in their dank cellar and went out for a night on the town for a Swiss-Chinese dinner. Sweet and sour duck with pineapple and a Tsing-Tao beer were a balm for my wounded psyche and angst-ridden existential crisis.

The night flew by in a blur of refined conversation and witty discourse. Or it might have been raunch, sleaze and belly laughs, I forget which. By the wee small hours I had to force myself to stumble to bed, in order to get enough beauty sleep to enable me admittance to The Lovely Doc’s Hallowed Inner Sanctum the next day. Only beautiful people are allowed to Doc’s hoolies.


Parting from Ms. Mac was such sweet sorrow. I had to peel her off me like a worn-out Band Aid, or I would have missed the train altogether. She clung to me like a limpet until Zürich, where I finally talked some sense into her, and sent her back to her (temporarily in Canada) husband and poor, starving children. But I first allowed her to gaze sentimentally with me upon the monumental glittery magnificence of the Swaroski Christmas tree gracing the centre of Zürich’s Hauptbahnhof. Never mind that the electricity consumed by its fairy lights would power an entire village of starving third-world children. Fuck ’em! We Westerners must have our fairy lights!

My arrival in the picturesque French agricultural hinterland The Lovely Doc now calls home was heralded by her manly hub Bailey, hub’s best friend, and her eldest monkey Matthieu, who came to pick me up from the station wearing his flashing Spiderman sneakers. I knew I was among friends.

I had planned to fling myself into Doc’s tender, welcoming arms, but I was severely punished for having failed to kidnap Ms. Mac from her domestic duties and bring her with me. Doc put me to work in the kitchen, arranging steamed carrots stuffed with horseradish purée artfully onto a plate. I’ll tell ya, it was more than just artful getting the horses and radishes into those tiny carrots. It was nothing short of a culinary miracle! The Lovely Vivi Dispatches joined us in Doc’s kitchen for joyful squeals and group hugs, then we packed up towering monuments of food for the invading army and drove it up to the Big House for my very first Thanksgiving Dinner ever.

After two drinks I was tipsy enough to tell my world famous Southern Ladies joke (again. So what? People expect it of me. An elegant soirée just wouldn’t be the same without it). Doc is no slouch in the filthy jokes department however, and she had me blushing a mere forty-two times. Vivi and I had to impolitely run away and hide in the kitchen from a supremely annoying and hatchet-faced French woman who wanted to practice her English with us. We left it to Doc to diplomatically explain we don’t see each other very often, and needed some intimate, private time. Vivi quoted Eddie Izzard at me and I turned her on to Russell Brand, until we were both blue in the face. We even found time to shout drunkenly and loudly down the phone at poor Sam de Bretagne who missed all the fun, due to a tragic train débâcle. Ok, Vivi wasn't drunk and I had only had two drinks, but - as she so kindly pointed out - I am a very cheap date indeed.

Oh my dears the FOOD! Doc had cooked up a storm – she claims it only took her two days, but she must be a dirty liar! There were trays and trays of finger food (crudités and American ranch dressing – be still my beating heart!) and dishes of baked crab spread. The main course was herbed turkey breast, slices of roast pork, mashed potatoes so creamy and unctuous, I believed they were a sauce! There was a massive casserole dish of herb & onion stuffing called, because it is cooked outside of the turkey, “Dressing” which is a misnomer to me: I very much wanted to get UNdressed and roll my nekkid body around in an entire bathful of the stuff. There was gravy! My favourite had to be the genuine Green Bean Casserole, with mushroom soup sauce and crunchy onion topping. Help me out here Doc, what have I missed?

She dragged me outside in the freezing dark, over piles of builders’ rubble, in high heels, to “help” her carry the four desserts from her secret hiding place. If you ever make me reveal the secret hiding place, I will have to kill you. Amazingly, we, and the desserts, arrived intact back in the house, and they elicited a GASP of pleasure and amazement from the throng. Pecan pie with maple syrup, sweet potato pie bursting with spices, the most humungous chocolate cake with attractively drizzled frosting and pretty sprinkles I have ever seen, and a GInormous apple crumble, all served with a vat of whipped cream.

The sky was frosty clear and a gigantic full moon beamed down on all of us as we thought of things to be thankful for. Mainly I was thankful that my trousers hadn’t burst open from excessive overconsumption of Doc’s masterpieces.

Oh, and thankful for my cosy house and cherubic children, but mainly my excellent friends and family.


Dear Antipo,

The Queen called. She says if you're not going to admit to your innate (drama) queenly nature, then she wants her tiara back.

Love 'n' stuff,

Ms Mac

Monday, November 26, 2007



A Professional Limited Liability Company
A t t o r n e y s A t L a w

SebChab Towers
Suite 666
10 Road of the Charm
Las Vegas, NV10408
United States of America

Dear Ms. Mac,

In accordance with the instructions of my Client, Ms. Antipo Déesse, I wish to inform you that she is regretfully considering legal action against you, pertaining to your choice of Christmas gift which you bestowed upon my Client on the evening of Friday November twenty-third, Two Thousand and Seven.

Your recent hospitality and long, heretofore unblemished record of friendship with my client notwithstanding, you may nonetheless be able to appreciate my Client’s bewilderment and distress upon opening the aforementioned Christmas gift.


The surely intentional prominence and bold rendering of the legend “DRAMA QUEEN” inescapably lead (or rather mis-lead) the casual observer to make certain libellous assumptions about the personality and character of my Client.

My dear Ms. Mac, the appellation is patently absurd! My Client is neither a representative of the monarchy in a legal, or historical sense; nor could she properly be described as dramatic (adj. 1. of drama. 2. like a drama in suddenness, emotional impact, etc. 3. striking, effective. 4. acting or performed in a flamboyant way.)*

My Client wishes to draw your attention to the catalogue of Jamie Oliver Cheeky Mugs by Royal Worcester contained within the packaging of the Christmas gift.


This list provides a series of porcelain tea mugs embossed with alternative appellations, which my Client feels you might have considered purchasing, had you invested but a modicum of thought and energy into your decision. Appellations which, it must be said, more accurately represent her true personality. “CUTIE PIE” and “SEX BOMB” are two examples which spring immediately to mind.

Despite the grave emotional trauma and psychological injury sustained by my Client, she bears you no malice. My Client sincerely hopes and wishes firstly, that you will recognize and concede the unfortunate error of judgement you have committed; and secondly, that you will be willing to perform reparations of a monetary nature, and of course provide – at the very least – a written and contrite apology for the harm inflicted.

In the event that no such action or reparations on your part are forthcoming, or indeed, in the absence of a response from you within thirty days, my Client regretfully feels she will have no alternative but to resort to legal action; namely, to bring a suit against you for Defamation and Breach of the False Descriptions Act of 1905, Section 12, which states:

“(1) No person shall:

(a) intentionally apply any false description to any friend or acquaintance intended or entered for publication or featured in any form of media, electronic or otherwise, or bring that person’s name into disrepute; or
(b) intentionally comment upon or publish any reports for public consumption in any form of media, electronic or otherwise, about a person to whom a false description is applied.

(2) A person who contravenes subsection (1) is guilty of an offence and is punishable on conviction by a fine not exceeding $10,000.

Yours very obsequiously,
Mr Giorgio Clooless

Attorney at Law

Cc: Ms. Antipo Déesse

*Collins English Dictionary

Sunday Sxt Msg From Dijon, On The Way Home

Dearest Stella!

Am sitting drinking hot tea in Dijon after having revisited our picnic park and church.

Robbie Williams is singing Feel on the radio!

Dijon is so different in winter. Am freezing my bollocks off – plink! Plink! they just dropped off and rolled into the gutter.

Do you remember the little owl, symbol of the Dukes of Burgundy? He is everywhere, it’s a lovely little town. Life is good!

Later Babe,

Friday, November 23, 2007

Friday Sxt Msg From Loos in Posh Geneva Hotel

Dearest Impatient New Car Owner,

I enjoyed a perfect, angel-dusted, relentless slumber until fuckin’ 3 am when the bastarding hotel radiator launched its ‘SERIES OF PINGS AT MEGA DECIBELS’ world tour, kick-off gig at Geneva’s Hotel ****, Room 412. The bags under my eyes consequently match the suitcase containing Ms. Mac’s presents.

Conference very busy, if boring. Colleague warned me discreetly that my cleavage was visible. D’uh! I acted surprised and pretended to look for a safety pin to fix my naughty blouse. Am currently hiding in the loos until she goes back into the auditorium for the next debate.

Have a hurty thumb from all this hi-speed texting. Will report from front lines of lunch banquet with culinary details. Stand by!

Knackered kisses,


Thursday Sxt Msg From Antipo

Darls, I miss you too!

I have already been kissed by The Handsome Greek: we did three bises and then an awkward fourth one (my filthy Parisian habit), and he said: “In Greece we do one for health, one for happiness and one for joy”.

Quoth I: “and one for insurance!” Of course he fell at my very feet and wanted to rescue me from my life of drudgery there and then.

Gotta go, it’s nearly champagne o’clock. Only one more sleep till your new car!

Greek kisses,


Wednesday, November 21, 2007

The Road To Geneva

Antipo is on her way to Geneva; these are her stories by txt msg.


Dearest Ms Mac, we have just left only 1 hr late. My colleague is driving like a bat out of hell thru' the tranquil French countryside, causing the heavy boxes of stuff (and me) to slide around in the back. I may lose my all lunch over her shoulder.

No need to take our own champers. Luxury nibbles and free bubbly will be served by adorable little black sambos in starched white linen- aah, Geneva at its colonial best.

Am hurt and wounded that you have not memorised my October 2005 blog posts about Geneva. There will be an exam on it tomorrow night. Start cramming, you still have a chance.

Muchos carsick besos,


C*** is the sniffing, knuckle-cracker, L*** is the energetic yuppie who motivates me to sell the product, Mr & Mrs Boss are not coming after all, because of train strikes, so more slacking off opportunities for me foreseeable! Gah! H*** wants me to proofread her Very Important Speech on the laptop, gotta go.

Later Babe,


How was lunch? I had motorway roadkill (duck) and parsley potatoes with apple and rasp crumble, most excellent!

Have you dinged the new car yet? Kidding! I'm just so funny. My colleague still driving - yaay. So I can settle down for an important snooze. Please blog my text messages after judicious editing; if you feel so inclined. Our blog could become a classic road movie!

Love and happy tummy kisses.


PS. Roast duck flavoured burps exceedingly tasty.

Yours in service,

Ms Mac

Monday, November 19, 2007

Dear Gloatey McJuvenile,

You are honoured to be exclusively informed that I am now the proud owner of an incredibly swanky brand new motor vehicle. After taking it for a test-drive this afternoon and managing not to smash it or pull off any of the sprakly new dashboard knobs (hee- knobs!) in my hand, I fell in love with it and threw a little tantrum in the middle of the classy dealership, stamping my feet and squealing until Mr Mac agreed to sell his soul and sign the lease papers. I bit my fingernails down to bloody stumps while Mr Mac and I waited with breaths held in nervous anticipation for the leasing to be approved. The idiots approved us later on this afternoon!

I hope with fervour that our new, swanky car will be ready to be picked up in time for our Girl's Night Out on Friday! If it is not and you are not able to be my first bestest girlfriend to have a ride (hee- ride!) in it with me, then fear not; in lieu, I shall bore you rigid all night by quoting automotive specs and values at you and forcing you to look at hundreds of incredibly boring websites which feature my new car. If you are fortunate enough to sit in the hallowed passenger seat of my new car, then please observe the following rules:
  • No smoking in the vehicle at any time.
  • No tattooing in the vehicle at any time.
  • No strange men in the vehicle unless they are dark, swarthy and good looking enough to complement the upholstery without shedding their man hair on my dash.
  • No stashing of vodka bottles under the passenger seat at any time. Actually, I think that was written more with me in mind.
I am slightly disappointed and will be sad to have to trade in the Vintage Mercedes. I know it was an old death trap, not worth the money the bills for its maintenance were printed on but it had a certain comedy value that I traded in on regularly in my blog posts. You know, in my other blog.

With rev-head love and B Class kisses (because B Class is so the new Classé!)

Madame Smug and Self Satisfied Queen of the Road

PS. I hope dry bread and water is ok for dinner on Friday.


Automotive Advice to Ms. Mac

Dearest Mistress Of Putting Her Foot Down,

I’m sure you won’t mind me sharing with the whole wide world that you are car shopping today, and actually test-driving a swanky model.

As you know, I am a mechanical expert in all things automotive, and I have one important piece of unsolicited advice for you today:


Love & spark plug kisses,
From One Who Knows What She’s Talking About

P.S. I wish to gloat in a very juvenile fashion about the fact that, of all your kajillion friends, I will be the first one to get a ride in the new car! You hadn’t forgotten that I’m abandoning my colleagues on our business trip to Geneva to come and visit you this weekend? And you will be picking me up at the station yourself and not just sending one of your minions?

Friday, November 16, 2007

URGENT! Dear Ms. Mac,

Lovey, pls edit this piece and get it back to us b4 going to press. One of our younger, inexperienced hacks has cobbled this together in a rush tonight; it’ll need a lot of tweaking and you are the only one with the international financial background necessary to explain the complexities of the case.
I’ll put the pressure on the board members about your Christmas bonus.
The Boss

Kiwi Blogger in Shock Horror, Egg-On-Face Financial Scandal

The Lovely Ms. Antipo Déesse, a very sexy, but sadder and wiser 42 year old mother of two, has exclusively revealed the truth behind the mystery of the Internet electronic theft she suffered recently.

As we reported last Saturday, Ms. Déesse was devastated to receive notification that one hundred and eighty gigantic euros had been debited from her PayPal account and apparently “donated” to the Wikimedia Foundation Inc., without her knowledge or consent. “I haven’t even been on E-Bay or PayPal since last July!” she wailed, daintily holding an antique lace hanky to dab prettily at the crystalline tears spilling from her velvety brown eyes.

After suffering many sleepless nights, drafting elegant letters of protest and complaint in her best legalese, spending countless hours in a draughty and heinously ill-decorated waiting room at the local Commissariat de Police, and agonizing over the identity of the evil mystery hacker who so callously emptied the coffers intended for Ms. Déesse’s Christmas shopping, but to no apparent profit for himself, the truth was finally revealed today.

“My husband, Mr Grumpy Blackheart, spent many hours researching the history of the internet connexions on our computer”, Ms. Déesse – pale, but resolute - explained earnestly, staring deep into your correspondent’s eyes. “And he unearthed the Wikipedia webpage of pop singer Avril Lavigne, which features a large, bright red ‘DONATE’ button. It appears my young [name withheld for legal reasons] clicked four times on the button, thus raising the donation from 40 euros by default, to 180 euros!”

Unluckily for poor, sultry Antipo, her PayPal access codes had carelessly been left in the computer’s memory, and the donation was executed incredibly swiftly, bloodlessly, and with maximum efficiency.

“Of course I am grateful to my husband for having solved the mystery” murmured Ms. Déesse, in husky tones, “but how I wish he had conducted his investigation before I laid a complaint at the police station and posted off registered letters willy-nilly and at vast expense, to sodding Luxembourg and the United Bloody States.”

The perky housewife and amateur budgie breeder is determined that others should learn from her mistakes, and she will remain resolutely cheerful during the forthcoming Season of Goodwill.

’Don’t let the bastards get you down’ is a very uplifting motto, I always find. At first I was so embarrassed, I wanted to dig a hole in the ground and stay there quietly for the next few weeks. But I have bravely made my extremely humble apologies to PayPal (Europe) Inc. and to the gorgeous young police officer whose time I wasted today. He had a good laugh at me, and he won’t forget me in a hurry. I just hope the Wikimedia Foundation Inc. will throw a damn good party in my honour, with their ill-gotten gains!”

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Maintain Low Cones

Dearest Mrs Church Mouse,

Fear not, you have not been placed in the cone of silence this morning. I have merely been distracted this morning by many things. Mostly by the fact that it is snowing outside and everything is covered in white, wet stuff. I went out and did my 365 picture in it earlier. I need to go and pick up a pizza for us lunch but don't wanna take the car out in the snow so we'll have to wait until later to eat. The snow doesn't look like it's abating any time soon.

Instead of going out in the snow to grab lunch, I am listening to Jimi Hendrix and playing scrabble online with Fizz. I am winning- haha! Although, my lead could take a dive any time!

Mr Mac headed off to Tucson, Arizona, sir! this morning. I was going to drive him to t'airport but the snow prevented me. I'm not taking the vintage mercedes out in the snow with hardly any brakes and dodgy winter tyres. Sir, no sir!

I watched a wonderful fillum this morning called My Name is Joe in which a bloke called Joe is a recovering alkie and he meets a health nurse who looks just like you! Wait, I'll get her imdb.... Louise Goodall her name is but in the movie, she has your bob and there's something about her face which just looked like you. It was like watching a Glaswegian Antipo. Would that be a Weegiedéesse? Also, the fillum was extremely good, if a little bleak and depressing. The natural Glaswegian accents and the spot-on dialogue was an absolute treat.

Ooh, gotta go, Mr Mac calling from Frankfurt!

More later.

Love and lunchless quisses.

Princess Snowy Snow Snow

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

Dearest Mistress Brokeback,

I spent TWO HOURS running between the pleece station and my bank: the pleece needed proof that the money had gone from my account, and they wouldn't give me a declaration of theft without it, and the bank couldn't give me a bank statement because their computers were down. Finally got some Important Bits of Paper out of them. I'm going to have to work very late tonight to make up the lost work hours (it's proofreading night, and I was going to have to work late anyway!)

Long story short:

- The money was debited/stolen from my account last night.

- I've told PayPal to fuck off, and that they should have protected me better.

- My bank card has been cut into little pieces, I'll have to wait ten days for a new one (I'm going on a trip to Switzerland in seven days, hahahaha!).

- Bank lady does not know if I'll get my money back, as I had no bank card theft insurance.

- Bank lady sold me insurance at 4 euros per month.

- Pleece want me to go back on Friday to declare the theft officially. They think I should wait to hear from the Wikimedia Foundation...

Very much need your moral support, and any other kinds of support you wish to offer (chest, groin, victim...). Your Christmas present is indeed in great danger now. You might wish to write a list of suitable alternatives, as long as they all cost no more than two bucks each.

But I take comfort in the fact that you always loved me for my mind, and not my money. Although the caviar and champagne probably helped you appreciate my mind somewhat.

Sad, Bah! Humbug kisses,
Princess Brokey McRobbedRobbed.


Dear Thieves,

Please just knock on my door next time, and I'll give you some of my nice money, then I can roll over and go back to sleep.

You can go and buy some nice hard drugs with it, take a lovely little overdose and drown slowly in your own charming vomit.

Yours sincerely,
Mrs Worn Out and Can't Take It Anymore

Dearest Victim of Online Fraud,

You are honoured to have advised me of your online fraud situation. I am appalled at the shocking turn of events which has robbed you of 180€ and me, most likely of my Christmas present. For how will you now order that Clooney-alike Strippogram you promised me? I was really looking forward too, to having a complete stranger who, really, looks nothing like my beloved Mr Clooney sleazing, sweating, writhing and gyrating all over feminine form my while I giggled helplessly from a chair in the living room, pretending to hate every moment of it. Not that I've thought about it much, you understand.

But back to your pain, if you keep your money under the mattress, will you still have room for all of your pictures of Seb and you know, the other stuff? Please don't even think of selling your body on street corners. I have a vision for a high class escort service for which I need only the best, cleverest and most gorgeous gals. You fit the bill perfectly. "A high earner for the high rollers" is how I will market you.

In answer to your earlier emails, I did manage to traverse the treacherous trail down to the drying room but the sheer effort of coffeeing with a friend exhausted me for the rest of the day. I must remember to stop doing quite so much. I will be burned out before long and then everyone will be sorry. Today I have plans for going for a walk with a friend and past that I am unable to comment. I have no other fixed engagements.

Please give my warmest regards to Mr & Mrs Swan and their brood of teenswans. It seems like only yesterday that the kids were mere fluffy balls of cuteness swimming along in their parents' wash.

Do you really, really wish to know what I was up to 10, 20 and 30 years ago? Luckily, I dug out my old pensieve for this very meme. Stick your face in my whirling silver surface (that's what she said) and prepare for a revelation.

10 years ago I was a mother of three very small boys living in the Western suburbs of Melbourne. One had just turned four, one had more recently turned three and my tiniest was just on the six months mark. I had given up smoking for a few months and consequently, just piled on a fresh new batch of coca-cola and chocolate filled kilos. I had been to see Australia get a thrashing from the All Blacks in the MCG a week before I gave up the ciggies. It was thrilling to see the lovely, gorgeous and manly Sean Fitzpatrick in all of his All Black glory, even though I was firmly barracking for the Wallabies, of course. The Melbourne Harlequins Rugby Club featured very heavily in my social calendar at that time. I was also going to playgroup once a week, ladies group once a week. I was probably taking Patrick to 3+ activity group once per week. I was surrounded by lots of lovely friends. It was a very happy time in my life despite the fact that I was in the habit of wearing the Western Suburbs uniform of leggings and a long top with some sort of flat footwear. The day I bought myself a post-baby pair of jeans, Mr Mac rejoiced to see me out of those bloody leggings. Sartorially, I've never looked back.

20 years ago, I was not quite 18 which means I was probably in the habit of sneaking into pubs and drinking vodka and coke, savouring the thrill of getting away with doing something I shouldn't be doing. I was working at Asda which was Fine Fare before it became Gateway and then Asda on the checkouts. That was way back when checkout chicks had to punch in prices and a man on the checkout was never, ever heard of. I was desperately in love with a boy, a friend who was at uni in Glasgow but who never loved me back- bastard!- and one of the Asda trolley boys who was far too good looking to be real. He was tall with floppy, very blonde hair and classical good looks. He was very popular with the laydees which meant I only ever could adore him from afar and dream about the next time he would help me get a price on an unpriced product from the shelves. I was the least attractive I have ever been in my entire life, although, interestingly enough, I was the thinnest I've ever been in my life since then. I was only a couple of months away from stomping my way out of high school in a fit of rage. I was obsessed with Jean Michel Jarre- so much so that I went to London to see his Docklands concert and Simple Minds. I soon discovered Otis Redding and annoyed the crap out of my sister by playing him all night on a very low volume in our bedroom. I didn't have much respect for the niceties of sharing a room. I had a huge poster of Arnold Schwarzenegger in some sort of army gear on my wall- yukk! Sigh..... I've had enough of the teenage years- too traumatising delve any further.

30 years ago I was a little slip of a girl who was as happy as a pig in poo. I had one sister- my brother had not arrived yet. We lived in Helensburgh on the East Coast of Scotland. I was at St Joseph's Primary School there and my best friend was Mary. We were as thick as thieves. Her name is in Friends Reunited. I was good in school and loved getting up and going to school every day. I used to walk to and from school. I used to play in a play park out of my mother's sight but she never worried about me. I used to wander into the woods and pick bluebells for my Mum, knowing full well that Mum would know I'd been in the Forbidden Forest where there were "Bad Men" but not caring- I just wanted those bluebells. I used to sneak through a hole in the fence of the golf course and run across the green, feeling very, very daring. I used to jump off a wall which was twice as tall as me- or so I remembered- and never once broke anything. My Dad used to collect shaggy ink cap mushrooms with my sister and me and ask my Mum to cook them for him. He used to drag us on hillwalks up Ben This and Cobbler That and take us on long, long drives around the Scottish countryside, to places with wonderful Scottish names like Inverary (which my Grandad used to call Inversnookie) and to Kinloch Rannoch. He also used to take us on a drive along the side of Loch Long which was always a treat. We called it "The Bumpy Road" and my Dad would let traffic pass him, waiting for a while to give them all time to get well ahead of us before he would speed along those humps and bumps causing all of us to squeal with excitement every time the car would lurch suddenly down into a pit before taking a run up to the next hump in the road. Now I come to think about it, it was probably quite dangerous but SO. MUCH. FUN. I used to read Beano comic and Whizzer and Chips when I didn't have my nose in an Enid Blyton book. I used to adore spending weekends with my paternal grandparents on the East Coast of Scotland because it meant spending a whole day with my best cousin, Sonia. I was madly in love with Gary Glitter and Abba and Grease was only a few months away. My sister and I would watch Top of the Pops religiously. We would tie our dressing gowns around our waists with the arms to make long dresses and dance to every song (except the slow ones) while our lovely parents watched us indulgently. Every Sunday my Mum would set my hair with rollers to straighten and smooth it our into a beautiful shiny page-boy bob which lasted all week. I wore red knee socks and vibrantly coloured and patterned dresses with ties at the back. I also wore kicker shoes and pedal pushers and velvet waistcoats and I'm sure I was the best dressed girl in all of Scotland. Happy, happy, happy times.

Gosh, I've come over all nostalgic (that's what she said)! And now I shall leave you to go and reminisce about those happy times (not the terrible teen years) and in order for you to get your morning coffee before you lovingly craft me your morning missive.

With much Pixie Boot love and Pedal Pusher kisses,

Princess of the Forbidden Forest

Monday, November 12, 2007

Help! I was Robbed!

Dearest Ms. Mac, my Little Lotus Blossom,

I've been fucked by PayPal!

I received a nasty shock on Saturday: an email from PayPal confirming my “donation” of 180 euros to the Wikimedia Foundation, Inc.

Bonjour Antipo,

Cet email confirme que vous avez envoyé à Wikimedia Foundation, Inc. ( €180,00 EUR avec PayPal.

Cette transaction apparaîtra sur votre relevé de carte bancaire sous l'intitulé PAYPAL *WIKIMEDIA.

I immediately notified both PayPal and Wikimedia that it was an unauthorised transaction. PayPal reassured me by email on Sunday that they would conduct an investigation and the funds would be frozen. If the investigation found in my favour, the amount would be reimbursed immediately.

Nous avons demandé au vendeur de nous fournir des informations à propos de
cette transaction. Durant ce laps de temps, les fonds ne seront pas
disponibles sur votre compte. En revanche, si l'étude sur la réclamation
pour activité non autorisée aboutit en votre faveur, nous vous
rembourserons intégralement le montant de la transaction.

Sadly I received a new e-mail from PayPal today to say that they concluded my proof is insufficient. My claim is rejected.

Grâce à une analyse minutieuse de la ou des transaction(s) soumise(s), le
Service clientèle PayPal est arrivé à la conclusion que les preuves sont
insuffisantes pour prendre en charge votre réclamation. C'est pourquoi
nous avons rejeté votre réclamation pour activité non autorisée sur un

Strangely, the money has not yet left my bank account. I have just closed the PayPal account (for ever! so there PayPal! You lost a really big-spending average-spending customer!), and will instruct my bank first thing in the morning to refuse to honour the Wikimedia donation.

I accept I’m probably the victim of phishing and/or spoofing. I’m hoping the original “receipt” from PayPay was in fact a hoax e-mail, trying to incite me to log in my details on a fake website. Am rather sad that I won’t be able to do my Christmas shopping the new-fashioned, easy way, i.e. sitting on my bum drinking hot chocolate and having stuff delivered at the click of a mouse.

I’m going to have to go to the inconvenience of visiting actual shops, conversing with actual sales staff, and handing over actual cheques and cash. Hey! It might be quite fun!

From now on I’m keeping my money in a sock under the mattress.

Sad love and kisses of extreme poverty,


P.S. I may have to sell my body on street corners now. Will you be my pimp?

The 10-20-30 Meme

Dearest Ms. Mac, Supreme Goddess of Domesticity,

I do hope you survived your perilous descent to the laundry room this morning. Your deafening silence has me somewhat worried…. Should I alert the authorities and send out a search party?

My rage and fury from last Saturday have subsided into a pleasing vigour and zest for life! I spent half of my lunch hour strolling alongside the canal, wrapped up against the cold in a thick black coat, which soaked up some warmth from the winter sun. A slight breeze teased my freshly shampooed hair around my face in a gossamer dance of golden filaments. Mr and Mrs Swan’s six babies are now strapping young swan teenagers, and have lost their brown fluffiness. They look almost grown up, in their shining white feathers.

I feel so serene and beneficent, that were now I to meet those two horrid boys from Saturday, I would probably give them a shoulder rub and offer to predict their future by feeling the lumps on their head (I predict a stretch in Borstal, followed by a stint in rehab, in which they will have a revelation and turn to Little Baby Cheeses and become Born Again Do-Gooders. What?! I am nothing if not imaginative. You know your love for me would not be nearly as deep, were I simply a humourless, boring git with as much personality as a teaspoon).

Complete change of topic: Our favourite fruity Kiwi, The Lovely Fi, challenged us with the 10-20-30 Meme, and it’s taken me a while to dredge up sufficient memories.

10 years ago - November 1997

Ten years ago I was a grey-complexioned, straggle-haired, post-natally depressed, stay-at-home Mum with two toddlers, dreading the approach of winter. Not a good time of year, as the lack of diary entries and letters home testifies. They are lovely children, but I felt isolated, inadequate, homesick and undervalued most of the time.

Take heart, all you straggle-haired, depressed young Mums: in ten years time you too could be reborn as flame-haired, vivacious bloggie comediennes, with millions hundreds of satisfied readers! (Well nobody has asked for their money back yet...).

The good things about being at home with children: cooking and gardening, reading to my babies and taking them for walks - all in all, a slower pace of life. If I hadn’t been so busy reading The Complete Rocket Scientist/Brain Surgeon as I breastfed my baby girl, I might have watched Days of Our Lives, and The Young and the Restless on daytime telly (dubbed into horrendously snooty French, gah!)

20 years ago: November 1987

I was working as an au pair in Munich, Germany and perfecting my German. I wore god-awful bright yellow and purple clothes, had Big Hair, grey stone-washed, pachydermous baggy jeans and grey pixie boots with saggy ankles. (My daughter tells me they are all the rage this year). Those were the days of being single, slightly intoxicated, smoking wacky 'baccy and flirting with anything in trousers. I also met a lovely French girl, Sylvie. We became best friends and I followed her to France the following year, where she introduced me to Mr Grumpy Blackheart, who was Mr Irresistibly Handsome and Shy in those days.

My Munich memories: Erdbeertorte (strawberry cream cakes), Brezeln mit Butter and many, many litres of excellent beer! And ten extra kilos…

30 years ago, November 1977

I was 12 and three-quarters years old, wore god-awful pointy-collared blouses, flared denim skirts and jeans (but not at the same time), chunky hand-knitted sweaters, and sported a home-done haircut, completely lacking in style. I was not allowed to get my ears pierced, thus ruining my chances with the opposite sex. I was madly in love with my tame budgie Joey, the Bay City Rollers and the music of Abba. Had just about grown out of my puppy love for Donny Osmond. Thank God he never saw me with unpierced ears. He would fall at my feet in adoration now though.

What was I doing? Swaggering about in my “senior” year of primary school, on the cusp of summer. It was great to be in the last year of primary, looking forward to starting our secondary education. I was desperate to start studying foreign languages.

We twelve year olds were just so cool. Dude - we ruled the school! We played Kiss Tag at lunchtime. We were allowed to go to the pictures with the boys (afternoon sessions only), sittin’ in the back row of the movies. If we got lucky, the boy of our choice would put his arm around us and swap chewing gum. Nothing quite matched that particular thrill.

Love and sickeningly nostalgic kisses,

Dearest Ms. Mac, Queen of Excitement

Here's something else you can tick off your Stuff To Do List:

- Make Antipo laugh.

Well done, oh Queen of Drollery and Yuma!

Your excitometer is indeed wobbling on the brink of exploding, so be careful out there!

Lurve and perfectly calm because not awake yet kisses,


Dear Antipo, Mistress of Fury

Dear Mistress of Fury,

My weekend, as I think I told you before, has been spectacularly uneventful so I have nothing of note to tell you.

Today though, things take a more exciting turn as I have a few things to do. First, I have to get in the shower. Then..... wait for it..... I have to take the bed clothes down to the drying room. Then, I have to visit a friend for coffee.

Oh. My. God. Can you handle it?

I shall try not to get too excited about my day but it's going to be hard. (That's what she said.)

Oh, I may try to fit in a quick episode of Coronation St as well but I don't want to stretch the excitometer.

Love and Clooney Quisses,


Sunday, November 11, 2007

A Strange and Shitty Saturday, Followed By a Lovely, Peaceful Sunday

Dearest Love Monkey Ms. Mac,

Had a horrible outburst of Stranger Rage yesterday in Fontainebleau, with my son in the car... two young hoodlums were playing in the middle of the busy road: stopping cars, waving them on, walking very slowly in front of me and other drivers, just arsing around for fun, but it was very dangerous.

I drove carefully around them and finally made it to my regular car park near the château, only to discover the two motherfuckers blocking my entrance. I stopped the car and stared at them with an expressionless face: they didn't budge. They looked slightly drunk or stoned, were smoking joints and waving a huge bottle of Coca-Cola that possibly contained some additional stimulants. That thing I have in my menstrual brain, that Sudden Storm Switch, that Rubber Band of Rage - it snapped. You saw it happen on a train once when a young guy lit up his cigarette, remember? My anger at having my lovely day spoiled by two moronic fuckheads exploded out of me and I wanted to physically hurt them.

I jumped out of the car and shouted 'What the FUCK are you doing? Get the hell out of my way!' I was shaking with rage and my face was moving in a strange way. They laughed and jeered and started abusing me verbally. I reached into my handbag to grab my Swiss Army knife, but luckily it wasn't there - I would have stabbed one of them otherwise, I know it.

I got back in the car and accelerated hard, then immediately slammed on the brake so that the car lurched forward and nearly hit them. I saw a satisfying flicker of fear in their faces. I rolled down my window and hissed at the nearest one "You picked the wrong victim, my little man. You don't know who my husband is in this town. You are going to find out!" and I started scribbling in a notebook as if I were writing his description down, and then pretended to call the police on my mobile.

God help us all! You can tell I watched too many episodes of The Sopranos on your DVD, can't you? I cannot believe how ridiculous I was. Am.

Thank goodness today was spent cosily at home, jogging in the forest with Keke, soaking in a perfumed bath, baking a cake with Popo (vanilla sponge with frozen raspberries and walnut streusel topping), and watching a Harry Potter movie, curled up on the sofa with a big cup of tea (in my special Andi cup). Hell, I love quiet Sundays at home on a wet winter's day! Am all better now. Till next month, I suppose. I'm going to have to up my dose of Omega3 happy pills.

Or maybe you should sharpen up your kitchen knives and perform a lobotomy on the anger lobe of my brain next time I come over.

Love and Looney kisses,
Ms. Mental Maniac

Friday, November 09, 2007

Dearest Ms. Potty Mouth

My dear Ms. Mac,

I am pratically speechless! I never knew you could be so naughty in public.

The only thing that will calm me down is to perform some meditation in front of this picture:

Ouf! Feeling better already.


Email to Darling Antipo

Dearest Queen of Bounce and Radiance,

No, I have not snuck off for a nap. I am terrified of not sleeping tonight since you put the fear of insomnia into me earlier.

(text missing: removed to protect the innocent)

In spite of all my bitterness and extreme fatigue, I am actually in a good mood. I have won another game of scrabble on Facebook and had three bingoes in three games as well. Cesca totally whooped my ass at a game. This is why you need to add scrabble to your Facebook, so you too can humiliate me on t'internet scrabble.

Someone on Flickr called me cute. A 20year child. Poor, blind infant. They're letting the disabled on t'internet now.

Talking of disabled, yesterday, on the bus home, James saw a headline on on of the pages of the free newpaper; Ausbildung für Behinderte Sex. "Ewwwwww!" James cried at the very top of his voice, "Dad, you can go on a course to learn how to have sex with retards! How gross is that?" How Mr Mac managed not to kill him, I'll never know! Far too risque and offensive for my blog, I think you'll agree but funny as fuck.

Swear word count in this email is very high. I hope you're proud of me.



In Response to Ms. Mac's Burger King Tragedy

Dearest Baconless Wonder,

I hope your burger went down nicely in spite of the shock horror absence of bacon.

I put too much pepper on my lunch, so now my tummy is all burny on the inside.

Have just scored my 50th subscriber of the year, so will be holding a wee party at work in ten days time. Will wait till the new girl joins us on 19th. Buttered scones for tea!

Love & shit, as Craigie would say,

(PS. You do understand that I'm not really sending you actual, literal shit with my kisses?)


E-Mail To Ms. Mac

Dearest Lovely Clever-Clogsy Book Reviewer,

I do hope you haven't sneaked off for a naughty little nap...

Just think of the comical creases the pillow case will leave on your face! Ho ho ho!

I hope I've managed to bring a bright spark into your post-sleepless night existence. I'm sharing my zestiness, and bouncy good times you see.

Sincere love and not ironic at all kisses,


I May As Well Rename This Blog 'Letter To Ms. Mac'

Dearest Glittering Ray of Sunny Sunshine Who Consistently Lights Up My Life,

I scored NINE HOURS of the Deepest, Sweetest Slumber in the history of Doozey Dozes! I am a Bundle of Joy! I am a Box of Fluffies! I could leap buildings with a single bound (and change my entire outfit in a telephone booth in two seconds flat). I even made myself a strong cawfee upon arriving at work this morning - not because I needed it, no! - but for the taste and sheer enjoyment of it.

I must have slept so soundly that earthquakes and rampaging elephants through my bedroom would not have woken me. In fact Popo told me that she fell out of bed in the night (just above my head) and showed me the bruise on her hip to prove it. I am amazed and delighted to have cruelly snored my way obliviously through the whole tragic episode. Which glittering gown and diamond tiara should I wear for the Mother of the Year Awards? You will be my stylist, and Andi my photographer.

How is your translation of War and Peace in Esperanto coming along? I do admire you for fitting it in between the arduous ironing, cooking, and massaging of your four resident male egos.

I have almost finished writing (and not reading, as you amusingly believed, in your sweet, naïve way) Fifty Ways To Make Sébastien Chabal Fall In Love With Me. I will of course be dedicating it to you, my Bestest Soulie.

With Hot Lurve and Fabulous Friskiness,

Thursday, November 08, 2007

Homicidal Irritation Thursday

Dearest Ms. Mac,

Am in desperate need of your yumour today! Feckin' period and migraine started with a wallop in the middle of the night, get this - TEN days early. Am suffering the worst cramps evah in the history of Uterine Discomfort.

Mr Grumpy Blackheart is battling with his own insomnia and he spent the whole night wandering around, switching on lights ("plink!"), going up and down stairs ("thump!") and eating breakfast at 5 am ("crunch!").

I'm about ready to murder someone! Will be sleeping on sofa bed, upstairs, with ear plugs, sleep mask and hard drugs tonight. Wish me luck....

Must. Have. Cawfee.

Later Babes,

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

I've Lost My Blogging Mojo

So you'll just have to make do with this morning's e-mail to The Lovely Ms. Mac:

Dearest Queen of the Drying Room,

There is absolutely no reason for me to be feeling so cheerful (especially as my first attempt at sending you my phone mug shot failed). I awoke at 5 am with a tickly cough, and then had to read my new Ruth Rendell about murdered children for an hour before dozing off again.

However, the lovely walk to work alongside the canal in wintery sunshine with fragrant wood smoke drifting in poetic hazy contrast to a cloudless blue sky obviously did me much good!

Accidentally came across a fab photo of Séb while flicking through a magazine at breakfast, so our affair is back on, but it's not my fault. Have not yet written him my witty fan letter, but it is taking shape in my mind. He's back in Cheshire and played for Sale Sharks on Saturday but came off injured after only 24 minutes. I should have been there with my massage oils and an ice pack....

Am having a GOOD hair day! I lurve my new colour - from a supermarket packet, surprisingly (hairdresser is still on maternity leave, the inconsiderate cow). Popo painted the stripes on for me and they look great, if a tad lopsided! I'm blonder on the left than the right now. I'm just sooo punk rock.

Got a lovely postcard from Andi! She is so sweet. I want to be just like her (and you) when I grow up.

OMG! I dreamed I was at your house! We cooked amazing food and I flirted with Herr Kapitän Craigie right under your nose. So it was just like real life in fact.

Breast wishes,