Whose Line Is It?

The Lord of the Manor doth like to pre-empt what I am going to say and, as a vexing side effect, on occasion finishes my sentences. For those (far too frequent) times when I find myself tongue-tied, this is okay. But sometimes… sometimes… I do like to deliver my own punch line.

This morning I was trying to tell The Lord of the Manor about my calamity with the Apple Dictionary/Thesaurus. Sometimes…. sometimes… I need to clarify the spelling of a particular word or (more regularly) consult the thesaurus. However, there is one distinct, universally annoying flaw with the Apple Dictionary/Thesaurus.

“The American spelling,” The Lord of the Manor did ring in early as I tried to make my point.

“No, smarty pants,” I smugly twisted my pointy finger at him. “That’s not my biggest problem at all.”

When my sister and I were little, my Dad (who is also a punch line stealer, I might add) used to throw us some curly questions, like – When a candle melts, where does the wax go? What temperature is room temperature? And, whose feet did they measure to determined the Imperial Foot?

Another such conundrum he presented to me once, which I have never forgot, is… How do you look up a word in the dictionary if you don’t already know how to spell it? Of course, it’s not so difficult to stumble and tumble your way upon a word with a bound paper dictionary.

So you see, good reader, the problem with Apple Dictionary/Thesaurus is that it doesn’t pre-empt what I’m trying to spell – which can be really, really annoying.

But that is all by-the-by, because the point of all this rambling was not about the dictionary at all…… The point I am trying to make is…..

Lord of the Manor: “Don’t always finish your sentences?”

*Sigh….. That’s right, Dear. Don’t always finish my sentences.

Blonde on!



When the Lord of the Manor found me in the kitchen surrounded by raw ingredients he stopped dead in his tracks. “Are you doing something scary?” He asked, appraising the scene from a notably safe distance.

I looked at him over the top of the recipe. “Maybe.” Then squaring my shoulders, “Yes. Yes, I am.”

He took one large step back. “Do you need help?”

If his back tracking wasn’t obvious enough, his tone left me in no doubt he wanted nothing to do with this. But where’s the fun in that?

“Yes,” I replied sensing a rare opportunity, “I do need your help.” If this escapade ended in hell and high water his assistance would assign us both equal blame.

His voice disappearing with fear, “What do you need me to do?”

“We’re going to stir fry this chicken,” I declared. “Using your jet burner.”

“Okay……” he drawled, a slow smile replacing his hesitation, a wary excitement filling his eyes. The jet burner makes a very big flame. It could literally launch a rocket. A big boy toy.

“Slice chicken, coat in flour, fry then add sauce,” I read. “Simple!”

I forgave his derisive snort. No. No… it was totally justified. Simple and I do not co-exist in the kitchen – EVER!

I can over-whip meringue, burn shortbread, bake flat cakes and generally stuff-up the most basic recipes. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve rumbled with the Kenwood, come to blows with the rolling pin and hurled the wooden spoon, but it’s a lot. Baking is by no means my favourite pastime.

Now, I tried my best to stuff this up, dear reader, I really did. There’s nothing funny about success, but the jet burner brought the wok up to an incredibly high temp and the chicken was fried to perfection within seconds; tender and juicy. I didn’t set off the smoke alarm – a usual sign I’m stir-frying – not once. The kids didn’t even complain when I set their dinner down in front of them.

“Why do you look so glum?” The Lord of the Manor asked. “Dinner was delicious.”

“That’s the problem,” I muttered darkly. “How am I going to finish my blog now? And worse, this completely ruins my reputation for being useless in the kitchen.”

“There. There,” he soothed. “You’ll always be useless in the kitchen to me.”


Blonde on!

Goldie Locks

‘I need a new hairstyle,’ I announced loudly.

‘There’s nothing wrong with your hair,’ the Lord of the Manor responded with overt disinterest… although I suspected he was hiding immediate concerns about  how this new grievance was going to impact on his untroubled serenity.

‘It’s scraggy,’ I complained. ‘I’m thinking of cutting it all off.’

Now, I expected some objection…. But what the Lord of the Manor said next didn’t just send chills through me – but rather great, big, lacerating wedges of ice deep into my spine.

‘Perhaps you just need a new colour,’ he suggested thoughtlessly.



….and once again for those who missed it….


Not to blow my own trumpet… but I am a natural blonde, people.

A Natural blonde!

We’re talking lovely golden locks here. What colour would he rather have me be?

‘What colour do you suggest?’ I asked in a measured tone, though the The Lord of the Manor could be in no doubt the conversation had taken as very dangerous turn as my fangs slowly descended.

He paused to study me for a moment before answering somewhat recklessly, ‘Mousey brown?’


‘WHAT?’ I screeched in utter disbelief. ‘You did not just say mousey brown!?!’

‘Copper?’ He amended quickly, perhaps hoping for a reprieve. He hoped in vain.

‘Copper….’ I repeated breathlessly, my voice lost to the sheer horror. ‘With my complexion?’

It was clear, dear reader, the Lord of the Manor had gone stark raving mad. Absolutely and utterly taken leave of his senses. Insane. Who in their right mind suggests a NATURAL BLONDE dye their hair mousey brown?

…… Someone with a death wish, that’s who!

Mousey brown! I couldn’t believe it.

I can’t believe it.

There are no words, people…

I was speechless….

….. Then, he smiled.

Good one! He got me good.

Blonde on!

Blog Face

“You have blog face,” the Lord of the Manor declared.

“What is blog face?” I asked with genuine surprise.

“The look you get when you’re blogging,” he stated simply. “Writing about me again, are you? You’ve got that look.”

“Maybe,” I replied with a nonchalant shrug. I hate it when he’s right. Happens far too often.

“Are you going to put a disclaimer at the end so everyone knows I don’t say half the stuff you claim, and that there is a LOT of poetic license going on in that blog of yours?”

“Noooooo! That would be like a magician giving away her secrets,” I objected. “Everyone knows you are the Abbott to my Costello. The Desi to my Lucy. The Robin to my Batman.”

“Hey!” He interjected loudly. “I’m happy to be your Abbott and even that other guy, but I am nobody’s Robin.”

“Oh, you’re Batman, are you?” I laughed. “The main man?”

The Lord of the Manor nodded seriously.

“In that case, I’ll agree to be Kato to your Green Hornet, okay?”

He didn’t dissent.

Phew. *wiped brow.

That was a close one.

Blonde on!


“We’re twins,” The Lord of the Manor declared, scanning my outfit with serious displeasure. We were both wearing pale blue jeans and a white t-shirt. Harmless enough, I thought. Some couples see matching outfits as a demonstration of their attachment. Some even do it on purpose! Not us. No Siree. We must NEVER go out dressed the same.

“Change your top,” he requested.

“Why should I change?” I countered. “It doesn’t matter that we’re both wearing white t-shirts.”

“Fine then. I’ll go change.”

Bemused, I watched him go, but promptly put him on the spot when he returned (now wearing a black t-shirt) as to why we couldn’t go out wearing similarly coloured clothes.

“You’ve seen people wearing those brightly coloured Ken Done woollen jumpers?” He began.


“Well.…. they look like idiots.”

“We were hardly wearing electric green tracksuits circa 1982,” I flounced before a wicked smile crossed my face. “You’re thinking of ‘Kath and Kel’ from Kath and Kim, aren’t you?”

When his lips pressed together, my smile widened.

“So when we dress the same, you think we’ll be compared us to certain characters and laughed at.” I started backing toward the wardrobe. “So…. if I go put on a black t-shirt too…. People will think we’re Danny and Sandy?”

“Stop it.”

“Or if we both put on red, people might think we’re Mr and Mrs Claus.”

“I’m not joking. Cut it out.”

“I know. I know,” I jumped up and down. “You go put on a green t-shirt and I’ll wear pink, and let’s see if we’re mistaken for Kermit and Miss Piggy!”

And just like Kermit, The Lord of the Manor dropped his head and sighed. Pity he wasn’t wearing green. Really did look just like him!

Blonde on!

The Polar Fleece Feud

The Lord of the Manor and I have an ongoing argument, a mere trifle as to what constitutes a jumper?

I argue determinedly that anything constructed as a jumper, regardless of material or pattern is, without doubt, classifiable as a jumper. The Lord of the Manor argues back that important distinctions need to be studiously observed. No blanket terms for him!

Rather ridiculously, the item at the centre of our most heated debate is nothing less than the Polar Fleece Jumper. I claim a jumper made of polar fleece is nothing other than a jumper and should be referred to as such. The Lord of the Manor will have none of it. ‘It’s a polar fleece,’ he insists.

What about blankets made of polar fleece? I challenge him. Or dressing gowns made of polar fleece? Polar fleece is a fabric. Not a particular garment.

But no, that will not do, because we merrily categorise hoodies, cable knits, roll necks, windcheaters, cardigans, pullovers, vests, turtle necks, v-necks, etc….

….. Why shouldn’t we also separate, by definition, the polar fleece?

Help me, dear reader, convince the Lord of the Manor that I am right and he is wrong, because as we all know – he is.

It’s a bloody jumper!

Blonde on!

The Teepee

When the Lord of the Manor required a tent for an upcoming Brew Club weekend away, I suggested we invest in something more versatile than a swag. A tent that might – may – accommodate us all if we completely take leave of our senses and decide to go camping as a family.

The Lord of the Manor had just one stipulation. The new tent had to be easy to erect. No hour-long struggle with collapsible poles, endless threading, bending and stretching for him. He wanted pop-up, Ta-da, it’s done.

I had a stipulation of my own. I wanted a tent tall enough for us to stand up in. Being knee high to a grasshopper, this requirement presented no problem for me. But the Lord of the Manor’s lofty six-foot frame posed a greater challenge.

Then the Lord of the Manor presented me with a possible solution.

A teepee!

Isn’t that what I have exactly sixty minutes after a cuppa tea? I bantered playfully, only to have a sheet of paper thrust at me with a condescending sigh.

Now, I have no intention of taking up camping as a regular holiday activity, but I do rather fancy the image of me smoking the peace pipe by the campfire and referring to the other campers as pilgrim in between loud renditions of Colours of the Wind; a fair-headed Pocahontas if you will.

But much to my dismay, the Lord of the Manor was not quite so taken with the idea of being called, Two Dogs…. Talk about pee on my parade!

See you at the pow wow, Pilgrims.

Blonde on!