Day 123: I Haven't Really Made Contact With The Other Side

Hot news! An evening with The Other Side was an evening well spent, as it is All Definitely Going To Be OK.

What I have learnt:

The Reader Of The Tarot Card

She was enjoying a glass of red wine. Her cards were badly designed. She fondled my necklace, which was off my neck, and made of Very Ancient Jade and some beads from a shop in France. Findings thus:

1. I have been through a period of great stress;
2. I have undertaken some Enormously Strenuous Physical Activity In The Recent Past;
3. It will all be OK;
4. My chest hurts.

The Reader Of the Tarot WITH EXTRA ADDED BONUS of ADDITIONAL Astrological Insight

Also enjoying a glass of red wine. Nervous; long, dry, curly blonde hair; keen smoker.

1. "You're a Taurean, right?" "No. Libra." "I LOVE Librans. You're my first tonight."
2. Long-distance travel looks good for December;
3. It will all be OK;
4. Something to do with money on Friday, but don't do anything until Wednesday;
5. I must Flame like a Burning Source of Energy, be it by phone, email or face-to-face.

Glad that's cleared up then. Bit fucked off though, if I'm honest; no-one said anything about me being a prima ballerina.

Day 123: I Answer Some Questions

I have been asked some Questions of late and, as I am preparing for my night with the Spirits and unable to think of anything else, have answered them there on the right, under "FAQs". Sadly, not ONE of them was made up, even the one from Utah.

Right then. That's QUITE enough of that nonsense. I'm off to have my fortune told.

Day 123: I Will Be Making Contact With The Other Side (Through A Medium)

Spoooooooooky. Tonight I shall find out what the future holds, and it will definitely be true, for I am going to a psychic evening at a Top London Members' Club.

I have seen a psychic medium once before. My dead grandfather warned me about my teeth, one day I shall live abroad, my forties will be enormously happy and I will live until I am 86. Fact.

Whatever next? Will it be a pony or a Gigantic Cock for Christmas? Will Monkeymother's Advice Column be a hit with the kidz? Will the squirrels die, and the cat stop staring at me with death-ray eyes? Will I ever work again? And will I ever stop doing things I wouldn't normally do just because they're funny?

Heavens! What's that strange knock-knock-knocking and mysterious scraping sound? The cat is restless! I am SCARED!

Oh. It's the postman.

SPECIAL FEATURE: "Ask Monkeymother"

Regular readers will be aware of the existence of Monkeymother, who is my mother. (This you may have been able to deduce for yourselves.)

She persistently and stubbornly refuses to write a blog of her own, even though the things that happen to her are considerably stranger than the things that happen to me. However, it is nearly Christmas and as it is now not clear whether or not I will get a pony, she has kindly agreed to act as Agony Monkey for you, my legions of readers. She is able to answer questions on all topics, including:

1. Relationship Issues
2. Household 'n' cookery hints
3. Dog psychology
4. Proportional Representation
5. Some legal matters
6. Difficult bits of French grammar
7. What to do if your daughter is 37, single, unemployed and spends her days photographing Enormous Cocks on Brixton Hill
8. General Knowledge
9. Pretty much everything, come to think of it.

Please submit your questions via email up there on the right. All questions will be posted anonymously, unless you say it's OK to give your name and/or URL.

Please return on Wednesday for the first in Monkeymother's Special Guest Posts in which she Answers Your Pressing Questions.

Monkeymother is unable to answer all your questions personally. Questions along the lines of "Why is your daughter a cretin?" need not be answered, as I think the answer to that particular conundrum is more than apparent.

_____

UPDATE: Due to sheer weight of traffic, Monkeymother will only be able to consider questions via email. This is to stop Monkeyfather getting in there first and being silly when she is doing the washing up. Send 'em to me. Email details up there on the right. I thank you.

Day 123: I Am Given A Tantalising Glimpse Of My Christmas Present And Believe I Shall Soon Have My Heart's Desire, But Am Thwarted

I have always wanted a pony. When I got older and taller, I wanted a horse. But not just any old equine thing; oh no. I mean mules aren't much cop, and you can't do much with a zebra, unless you're a lion.

I had part-shares in a donkey called Rolly once. (He was called Rolly because, like most donkeys, he liked rolling around in fields quite a lot). He didn't do much except eat carrots, roll around and put up with me trying to plait his non-existent mane, but he was handy for fancy dress competitions at agricultural shows.

I went as a carrot once, as you will see in this enchanting photograph. (The arm you see is not a tantalising glimpse of Monkeymother, but my aunt; the lady in blue to the left is my Granny.) Rolly usually looked a lot happier than he does here, and that orange blob has nothing to do with his actual muzzle.

(In fact, he usually looked like this, but without the rosette he won for being second best donkey in Kinross-shire. There were two donkeys in the competition.)

Over the years, Monkeymother constructed various constumes, starting with Carrot (me, c. 1976), Gold Prospector (my little brother, c. 1977), and Christopher Robin and Eeyore (my little brother, c. 1978). Rolly always played a key part, and we invariably won a rosette and trot round the ring.

Time passed. We grew too big for Rolly, and he became too old for us. I rode other peoples' ponies, fell off a few horses, went on a riding holiday, had pretend gymkhanas featuring Britain's plastic horses at my friend Sara's flat, read the Complete Works of the Pullein-Thompson sisters and cried for three days after seeing International Velvet. But I couldn't have a real horse of my own because we lived in the big city.

But Monkeymother has bever forgotten. Tonight I returned from a night out (during which I ate too much lemon trifle), and found an electronic communication from her suggesting that finally - yes, finally - I will be getting a pony for Christmas. And here she is, Butterscotch the Pony (with some little bastard interloper who can get her stupid hands off MY pony RIGHT NOW):




















I have been to look at the computer internet link that was included in Monkeymother's communication. It has given me a sneak preview of Butterscotch, and she sounds really good. "Feed her the carrot and groom her with her brush. Watch her swish her tail back and forth! She even whinnies and snorts, and will sniff your hand!".

But hold up: what is this? "Pony's maximum weight limit is 80 lbs.-36kg." In Monkeymother's eyes I am always lovely, but I think she has underestimated my weight a bit. Well, quite a lot, actually. Still, it's the thought that counts.

Meanwhile, I will prevail. For one day I WILL have a horse (I'm thinking a 16 hand bay with a kind face, about 7 years old, nicely broken-in and fond of apples), and I shall call him Kind Horsey, and brush his mane every day. On Sundays I will oil his hooves and for Christmas he shall have a whole packet of Polos to himself.

Trot on, Kind Horsey!