Joyce's week

Hello everyone, how have you been?

It’s spitting outside but I hope it comes to nowt. I had to throw my brolly away after it broke this morning, I nearly had a lollipop lady’s eye out with it. And these nights are starting to draw in, I have to use a mini torch to find my keyhole.

Argos Alan said he can get me a security light. I offered to pay but he said he gets things free from his store, so that’s good of them. He’s holding an Elizabeth Duke jewellery sale from his extension next Sunday.

Oh, I’ve had a terrible time this past week. I was mugged on the bus by a hoodie man, he took my purse from the top of my shopping bag. It was found in one of the precinct bins, even my picture of Bella was missing along with everything else.

Why would anyone want a photo of a three-legged cat? I was that upset, one of my heads came on and I couldn’t go to work.

Sylvie came over and opened my bottle of Asti to help with the shock of it all, she’s good like that. She loaned me £25 and said not to rush paying her back, but I paid her the next day and gave her an extra fiver for her trouble. She said I should only pay back what I owe, but she was grateful nevertheless.

Then, I got a call from Blockbusters in Bootle who said I was overdue with ‘Romancing the Bone’ and ‘Saturday Night Beaver’. I said, ‘Do I sound like the type of person who would derive pleasure from watching such filth?’ They said ‘It takes all sorts, last week a priest came in and snuck ‘Forest Hump’ under his robes’.

Sidney went into my local branch and got a new card, so I can still rent my musicals. He bought me a new shopping bag with a zip rather than Velcro fastening and I suggest you do the same if you don’t want a pornographic phone call from Bootle.

Well, you heard about poor Ivy and her mittens. I had to hold a carton of Ribena up to her mouth while reading out my library book to her. But she’s a terrible fidget and the straw kept going up her nose. It was all a bit of a hoo-ha to be honest and I don’t think she appreciates Miss Marple’s detective skills, so I shan’t bother again.

Lester’s very pleased with my progress and he’s teaching me how to add a video link, I can’t see Sylvie coping with that. I told her she’d put Len Goodman on last week’s hyperlink, then she accused me of sabotaging her blog and called me a gobbin. But I let it go as I know she doesn’t mean it.

She’s in a bad mood because it was her wedding anniversary at weekend and she felt a bit low. Percy came to the hospital shop this morning and gave her a small gift-wrapped box but when she opened it, she was livid. It was an old box of Fire Engine Safety Matches, she said she felt like setting light to the thing and throwing it at him.

I don’t hold out much hope for their relationship, really.

Sylvie wants me to join that dating agency but I said it’s not my boast. Anyway, she’s only after the set of steak knives that Molly gives away if you refer a friend, I’m not daft.

Our area manager, Annabel Pemberton (we call her Lady Muck), joined my drama group. I brought along some of my tarts and she didn’t touch them but everyone else couldn’t get enough. She parades around in her paisley shawl and brooch like she’s Penelope Keith and she’s not a patch on her.

She’s after the lead in ‘Private Lives’ but Daphne Burrows will fight her tooth and nail for that part. There’ll be hair-pulling over this one. Mind you, Daphne’s hair doesn’t move, it’s got that much lacquer on it. Molly Chadwick says it’s flammable. I said, she best not go near Percy then!

Annabel once stood at local elections as ‘Cocktail Party Candidate’. She only got twelve votes and they were her macramé class. Sylvie had the flyer and crossed out ‘Cocktail’ and wrote ‘Barmpot’ and then pinned it on hospital notice board! We had a good giggle over that.

She’s a one, she is really.

Apparently, Lady Muck formed a Neighbourhood Watch group and had a serving hatch installed especially. She doesn’t impress me with her cul-de-sac ways. She thinks she’s Margaret Thatcher with her pussy-bow and patent handbag.

I used to wonder what the queen and Mrs Thatcher talked about behind palace doors. They probably kicked off their shoes and flipped through Argos catalogue like rest of us.

Did I mention that I met my new neighbour, Lesley? She’s got decking out back. She told me she’s a counsellor, ‘Oh good!’, I said, ‘You can sort out my wheelie bin, or lack of one. ‘I shouldn’t think so’, she said, ‘I’m a marriage counsellor’.

She’s too late to help me in that department, I thought.

Lesley went on to say that she’s getting divorced. Apparently, her husband had an affair with one of her patients. It’s awful when you weigh it up.

She kicked him out, tiled her bathroom and sold the house. She had to go into therapy herself, after that. She’s going to a health farm to be decaffeinated. Mind, I wouldn’t pay for someone to come at me with a rubber hose-pipe, thank you very much.

Ted is still living above Valerie Ashcroft’s drycleaners. She’s a jezebel, that one. Her husband was hardly cold in his grave when she was on karaoke at the Gold Rush Club. I know people grieve in different ways, but one week after you’ve been widowed is a bit too soon for tangerine chiffon in my book.

Sylvie still grieves for her Eric, she puts on a front but I know she hurts inside. Its like I said to her, a heart that loves is always young, and she has the good times to look back on.

I’d hate to lose my memories, they shape who you are. I just wish I had better ones.

My old colleague, Tommy Cresswell, lost his wife Patsy two years back and I bumped into him in Icelands a few days ago. He was wandering around with her old shopping basket. I said hello but he looked right through me. He still looks a broken man, poor soul.

He was wearing his waistband up to his chest and an old threadbare cardigan. Patsy would never have allowed him out looking like that. He used to be quite a catch in his day with his motorcycle and side-car. We all had a crush on him at town hall but I was no match for Patsy with her red lipstick and kitten heels.

At end of day, we’re all survivors but some get there quicker than others.

Barbara Windsor’s a survivor. My Sidney’s a big fan, he idolises her and often writes to her fan club. She sent him a signed photo which he has on his mantel piece alongside one of Jane McDonald, another idol of his.

He wanted to go on Mastermind to answer questions on Barbara’s life but he’s not very good with leather chairs. They’d do well to think about that.

It’s brewing up a storm out there and I haven’t got my rain bonnet. I might have to put a carrier bag on my head, I’ve only had this Topaz rinse since last Thursday.

There’s a video link for you to enjoy from the Tube website, it’s one of my favourite songs and another of Sidney’s idols, I hope you enjoy it.

Sylvie will be here next week, so take care until next time.

God bless, Joyce xx

Match Maker

Hello. It’s me, Sylvie.

I warned you about Joyce, didn’t I? Now you know what I have to put up with!

She was two hours late this morning and all of a fluster, her cat had a panic attack when a pigeon crashed into bay window. Bella had got her head trapped in venetian blinds, so Joyce took her t' vets and they said she was just a bit dizzy.

I said to Joyce, ‘Are you sure they didn’t mean you?’. She gave me one of her looks and pretended to tidy up Toffee Crisps.

Well, you know all about her family after reading that little epic last week, it was like an episode of Twin Peaks, and I made neither head nor tail of that when it were on tele.

Her Sidney’s a nice enough chap but a bit of a girl’s blouse, always fussing over nowt. By all accounts, he were wearing a string of pearls to school by the time he were twelve, he didn’t make friends easily.

I’d still love my Clint, even if he did sit on other side of church. I’d try and set him up with that nice Paul O’Grady.

Did you see him interviewed on TV last Friday? Even Clint said he’s a handsome fella with his three-piece suit. Aye, aye, I thought!

We’ve got a lovely homosexual couple along balcony. They’ve always got clean nets and go at it with the bleach every Saturday. Clint laid their kitchen lino last week, it looks like wooden flooring.

They’re dead modern and they’ve draped fairy lights over their pelmet and it’s not even Christmas! It’s another world, it is really.

Anyway, I expect you’ve been dying to know about the wine and cheese do. What a shambles! The buffet consisted of Philadelphia on Ritz crackers, which were well past their sell-by date, and we drank warm Blue Nun from polystyrene cups.

I stuck with the Quavers and didn’t go near the dips. Molly Chadwick’s never been much of a hostess. French Fancies on plastic doilies are more her stride.

And I had to wear a name badge which played havoc with my shrug. Despite all that, I got chatting to a nice chap called Percy who was hovering over Black Forest while waiting for it to thaw.

He’s a retired roofer and collects matchboxes. Mind you, he has a distinct whiff of sulphar about him but he was the only man there who had any grasp of bladder control.

Percy’s a widower from Bury. His lost his wife three years ago when she was struck by lightening while bringing in washing. Her own fault really, those metal curlers went out years ago.

If she’d have worn sponge, she’d still be here today.

Any road up, he phoned at weekend and invited me to t’ Harvester tomorrow as he’s got a two for one voucher for the Earlybird special. He could be a bit of a tight wad but we’ll suck it and see.

Molly thinks he’s a gigolo because he’s signed with two other agencies. He wrote on his profile, ‘Just because there’s snow on the roof, it doesn’t mean the fire’s gone out’.

That put me off him a bit.

I feel a bit strange going on a date, if I’m honest. It’s my wedding anniversary on Sunday and Eric always took me to Bellavista in Rochdale. It’s dead posh with white tablecloths and wicker baskets. We’d order Champagne and get bladdered, just like on our wedding day.

We’d have our pudding and then he’d pass us a small gift box which contained a new charm for my bracelet. The last one was a rotating heart which says ‘I Love You’, it’s my favourite one but there was no room for any more charms after that.

I only wear the bracelet on special occasions as it’s too jangly and always snags my tights. I shan’t be wearing it tomorrow night. Not at Harvester.

Anyway, I’ll not hold out much hope about this one, especially if Percy starts banging on about his matchboxes again. He’s after Japanese ones now and asked if I’d go on auction sites while I’m in class, cheeky bugger.

We’ve got a new teacher here at the centre, he’s called Lester and he’s got a gold tooth and rides a bicycle. His right hand has long nails because he plays guitar, so that’s nice, int it?

Ivy won’t be back this term, she rushed home from class last week and the dopey mare grabbed the casserole pot with bare hands. She’s up on Ghandhi ward with giant mittens.

She didn’t meet anyone at wine and cheese do which it’s just as well, really. She’s not had a good year, love her.

I popped up to her this dinnertime with a copy of TV Quick and had to read all the blooming listings to her, I shan’t be doing that again in a hurry. I kept hoping she’d nod off.

I watched Strictly Ballroom Dancing at the weekend. I didn’t know it were on both nights, what a treat. I quite fancy that judge, Len Goodman. He’s a right charmer, he can dip me anytime!

Me and Clint bet a fiver on who’ll win. I bet on that Andrew from GMTV but I’m not so sure now, he looked a bit simple on dance floor. Clint bet on Phil Daniels but he’s already lost!

Mind you, I thought that TV cook should have gone, I’ve got more rhythm in my little finger, and I probably make a better Shepherd’s Pie.

Mandy just sulked while it were on. She’s a bit needy and doesn’t like sharing Clint’s attention with others, especially with lasses in sequin body stockings. She gets on my wick at times.

Me and Eric could cut a rug in our day, we’d get dolled up and go dancing every Saturday night when we were younger. I couldn’t do it now, not with my knees.

Clint’s also watching X Factor but I can’t be doing with that, I’ve heard better down Gold Rush club. He went with Argos Alan to auditions at Old Trafford earlier this year, but they couldn’t be arsed to queue for registration.

They’d been practising ‘Wake me up before you go-go’ all day before, so that was a waste of time. The pair of clowns want to apply to Big Brother next year, you have to laugh.

Well, I seem to be getting on okay with computer class, though this keyboard is ruining my new nails. Lester is teaching us hyperlinks this evening. He asked if we’d heard of them and I put up my hand and said me and Eric used to shop at the one in Calais.

Oh, I did feel a fool when he explained what it was and the whole class burst out laughing. I wasn’t best pleased.

Though, I don’t know why Renee Braithwaite was laughing so much, when Lester asked who had Windows XP at home, she bragged she had PVC ones round at hers. Daft old bat.

Joyce is boasting to anyone who’ll listen that she’s better than me with this computer lark because she can use an electric typewriter. I don’t know who she’s kidding when she can’t even set video. I’ve got Sky Plus but she’s not as with it as me.

Anyway, I’ll love you and leave you. Joyce is on next time which means she’ll be wittering on about her tarts at drama group. It’s riveting.

Before I finish up, I have to put in a hyperlink, so bear with me. I was looking at websites earlier and I’ve chosen one for you.

There you go. AVON

Oh no, that’s not right at all, it’s supposed to change colour.

Hold up, I’ll have another crack at it.

AVON

By heck, it’s a fiddly business, is this.

Make any Avon orders through me and not Joyce because she won’t have a clue. I recommend the Aloe Vera cream, it brings up my horse brass a treat, does that.

I’d better get my skates on, I’m the last one left and Lester’s looking daggers.

I hope he hasn’t got a casserole on the go.

Cheerio for now, love from Sylvie x

Joyce's Story

Hello everybody, I’m Joyce and I work part-time in the hospital shop with Sylvie.

I’ve already written a profile, now here’s a potted history about myself.

I was born in Giggleswick, North Yorkshire which boasts the likes of Russell Harty and Richard Whitely amongst its superstars but they’re both dead now.

I was a war baby, mother gave up her nursing job when she was expecting me but she signed up to the Women’s Voluntary Service and did her bit during the war. There were many women like her, ready to be called upon night or day.

My parents took in two sisters evacuated from London. They doted on me and didn’t want to go back home. Parties were held in the village hall to keep up morale where everyone would pitch in and make cakes and lemonade with their rations. Mother said the war brought out the best in folk.

Father worked on the local newspaper but he didn’t sign up because he was a conscientious objector. His articles caused quite a stir but he stuck to his principles even though it made him a bit of an outsider with the locals. He always had a hankering for the stage and was a grand tap dancer.

Sidney was born just after the war ended. Father was delighted to have a son but mother said she’d have preferred another girl. She’d often dress Sidney in pink which turned a few heads whenever they went out.

My parents began to drift apart and their arguments became more frequent with time. Father would stay out all night and I would hear mother crying herself to sleep. Sidney would come into my bed and snuggle up, he didn’t get much affection from mother.

Not long after, my parents separated and father moved to London to work in the theatre where he had lots of friends. It was a saddening day when he said goodbye and drove off down the lane. It was pouring down and I was soaked right through but I carried on waving until I couldn’t tell the rain from my tears.

Flora Crabtree was our kind-hearted neighbour who had blonde hair and smoked cigarettes, she had a look of Betty Grable about her. She took in Sidney as mother couldn’t cope, and she was drinking heavily at the time. They were difficult years but you learn to whistle past graveyard.

We weren’t allowed contact with father but Flora used to read the odd letter to us on the quiet. He’d talk about the bright lights of London and all the glamourous folk he’d met from the theatre world.

He missed his kids terribly and wanted Flora to bring us down for a weekend but mother would never have allowed it, she’d only refer to him as ‘That Mary Ellen’, so I knew we stood no chance of seeing him any time soon.

A couple of years on, we got news that father had died in a freak accident. He’d danced his way into the orchestra pit, landing head-first into a tuba. It was a terrible shock to us all.

His friend Raymond drove up from London with some of father’s personal belongings but mother refused to let him in, she took the parcel and went into her room and cried for days.

Many years later, after mother had passed away, I was sorting through her things and found a photo of father with the words ‘In loving memory of my dear husband’ inscribed on the silver frame. It was wrapped inside her old wedding veil, it just goes to show that she never stopped loving him.

The odd thing is, when I look back at my childhood, I can’t remember loving mother very much but I respected her. She was always tired and mithering and probably worried about money. But we saw a softer side to her as she became frail with age. I suppose she no longer had to worry about protecting us and was able to show her love rather than hide it.

Sylvie thinks I’m a bit of a cold fish but she’s wrong. I’ve been known to shed a tear at ‘60 Minute Makeover’. But I wouldn’t want them round at mine, I don’t want to come home and find my knick-knacks in a skip.

Anyway, back to my story… more career opportunities opened up for women in the 1950s and I looked towards working in publishing, but I was offered a typist’s job at Rochdale Town Hall through my Uncle Fred. Mother said it offered better financial security, so we packed up and moved there.

Flora married her ex-G.I boyfriend who had got back in touch and she moved to Ohio, so Sidney moved in with us. He tried his best to get along with mother but it was a hard slog though they became closer when he nursed her during through her final year.

What a waste of all that love but they got there in the end.

Sidney was a Postmaster until he took early retirement. There aren’t many sub-post offices about these days. Pension day was like a social event at his place, he’d make the old folk a brew and I’d bake a batch of cakes to pass along the queue. I made a rod for my own back as they started to put in orders each week.

I should mention Ted, I suppose. We met on the buses where he was a conductor and always gave me a free ride. It wasn’t long before we got engaged. I just went along with it really but he was quite charming in his own way and a right Bobby Dazzler in his uniform.

It was a small wedding. I made my own dress from a Simplicity pattern, it was satin-look and had pearl drops hanging from the lace trim. I didn’t wear a veil, just flowers on a comb. I remember how it dug into my head all day.

Princess Margaret got married the month before. She looked like a film star and her dress was out of this world, I saw it on a Vogue pattern in Kendals but it was too late to run it up by then.

I also made our wedding cake, it was a Dundee mix with white icing and pink roses on top. It was only the one tier, mind. I expect Princess Margaret had a couple more.

We held the reception back at the house and put on a nice spread. It was a grand do and we sang around the piano as Aunty Beryl played show tunes. We’d never seen mother dance before, she got merry on Babycham and did the Charleston.

Then she tripped over the hearth rug and landed on Uncle Fred’s wooden leg but he didn’t mind and we all had a good laugh about it.

Ted took me to Morecambe for our honeymoon, and every year after that. It wasn’t a very exciting marriage but we bobbed along like most folk do. We always booked the same caravan and I cooked and cleaned up after him in my usual fashion. It was like living at home but with melamine plates.

I enjoyed our breezy walks along the promenade while eating cockles and whelks from small tubs. On our last night, we’d go to our favourite seafront chippy for a fish supper and a pot of tea. We’d have fresh cod in golden batter and chips that were hot and crunchy with plenty of salt and vinegar. Ted always spoiled his with too much tomato sauce, I thought.

A few years down the line, we had a beautiful daughter called Constance, she had bright blue eyes and a mop of red curls but we lost her to whooping cough when she was ten months old. It was a heart-breaking time and Ted took it very badly while I kept busy by going back to work.

He became angry with the world and had to give up the buses, they said he was a liability. It was a nervous breakdown really. They call it ‘clinical depression’ nowadays and pop you on Channel Five. But we didn’t have ‘Trisha’ back then, you just had a cup of tea and hoped for the best.

The long and short of it is our marriage became an existence. We slept in separate bedrooms and we’d speak but we didn’t talk. One day he came back from the pub, packed his bags and moved into the bedsit above Valerie Ashcroft’s dry cleaners.

I came home and found some money in an envelope and a note with his new address. He ended our marriage with ‘Regards, Ted’ but I felt nothing by that point except relief. It was more lonely living with him than without him.

Anyway, as Molly Chadwick says, ‘There are lots of sunny days in autumn’, and she’s not wrong.

I don’t go short of company, Sidney lives up the road in a smart Tudor bungalow, he never married but he’s happy with his lot. We both belong to the drama group and get involved with charities and the mobile library, so we keep ourselves occupied.

And I have my cat Bella, who’s still a bit jumpy since she got her tail stuck up the Hoover. I have to use the carpet sweeper and it takes twice as long but it’s only until she’s off the sedatives.

I enjoy working at the hospital shop and have been there for four years now. Sylvie is a good friend to me, even though we fight like cat and dog at times, but I slip her the occasional iced finger which soon calms her down.

She’s just joined Molly’s dating agency, so I’m sure she’ll tell you more about last week’s wine and cheese do. I admire Sylvie’s ‘get up and go’, I had that once and sometimes wonder how things might have been had my life taken another turn.

Sylvie idolises her Clint. He’s a kind soul but doesn’t always go about things the right way. He tried to raise money for PDSA by going vegetarian for the day but he only lasted ten minutes. He forgot himself and ate a Cornish pasty but the thought was there.

I best finish up, Ivy’s got a face as long as a yard of gravy, she has a casserole on the go and forgot to put the timer on.

As I said to her, it’ll have dried out by now.

It was nice chatting to you all. Sylvie’s back next week, so I’ll see you after.

God bless, Joyce. xx

Here it is, then!

Hello there, I’m Sylvie and this is my first blog. I run the hospital shop in Rochdale. Well, it’s more of a small booth, really. Annabel Pemberton (our area manager) announced that we have to start ordering stock on the line as soon as we get our computer.

I’ve used my clipboard for years but we need to move with the times. Annabel booked me and Joyce into evening classes to learn all about it. Mind you, she only booked one place, so we’ll have to take us turns.

Joyce will be here next week but don’t be surprised if she bangs on about the time her cat got her tail stuck up the Hoover. You learn to live with it.

Ivy Nuttall is teaching us at community centre. Her husband's run off with the Yoga teacher. They’d been at it for two years. Honestly, it gets more like Knot’s Landing round here!

Ivy set up this page in July when she were on anti-depressants and vodka. She told Joyce that we should write a weekly blog as it’s all the rage.

Here’s a bit more about me, then. I was born in Rochdale, an only child. My parents were in their mid-forties by the time I came along and they didn’t really know what to do with me. It was quite a lonely childhood, full of daydreams and tears.

As I got that bit older, I’d spend most of my time listening to dance tunes on wireless while trying to pout like Diana Dors at mam’s dressing table.

Times were hard with little money to go round. Mam took in other folk’s washing and I’d work the mangle while dad smoked his pipe and mended clocks in back room.

I became a bit of a handful and left home while fourteen and moved in with my friend Maggie’s family who were loud and had a caravan in Clitheroe. I left school a year later and worked in cotton mills before moving onto broken biscuit counter at Woollies.

I eventually ended up in stationery at Kendals department store, which is where I met my dear Eric, he came in to buy a Parker pen and some Basildon Bond paper.

Eric was four years older than me and quite a heart throb with local lasses. He looked like a young Tony Bennett. We were a striking couple with his black quiff and my blonde beehive.

We’d drive about in his red convertible and everyone would stare at us. He loved that car but it got stolen outside The Astoria Ballroom where we had gone to see The Beatles. He couldn’t stomach them after that.

We were wed at town hall in 1964, I wore a lemon shift and Eric chose a navy mohair suit. Our friends took us for a meal in Chinatown, it was such a bonny day and we got hammered on champagne!

Eric worked as an insurance rep and travelled all over North of England. He won ‘Salesman of the Year’ in 1968. His firm presented him with a decanter and paid for a weekend at Butlins in Skegness, or Skeg-Vegas as we liked to call it!

Our Clint was born in 1971, the long wait made him all the more precious. He were a right big bairn. Eric decided that one kiddie was enough, I would have liked more but there you go.

We had a good life which came with its ups and downs but we always worked at it. We went to Costa del Sol every year and made some good friends with folk who had moved there to start a new life. Clint calls it ‘Costa del Crime’, cheeky bugger.

Eric started to pop over to Spain to choose a property for our retirement. We looked forward to putting us feet up and drinking Sangria in the sun, while our Clint fancied setting up his own radio station for ex-pats. He could teach that Richard Branston a thing or two.

Sadly, our plans went to pot. Eric passed away in 2001, heart attack.

He used to stay at Doreen Bradley’s B&B in Scarborough whenever he was on the road. He was putting up shelves in her lounge alcove when it happened. She said he managed one last screw and that were it, he were gone.

Clint drove me there in the van after we got the call. It were the longest journey of my life.

Doreen was at the hospital with mascara running down her cheeks. I remember thinking she could have made time to wash her face.

The chaplain came over and took me and Clint to see Eric. The room was dimly lit and smelt of bleach and plastic sheets. I noticed there was a picture on the wall just like the one we had at home to cover a damp patch.

I combed Eric’s hair the way he liked it and waited for him to wink at me, but he never did. I kissed his cheek and told him I loved him.

Clint hovered by the door, he’s not very big on goodbyes.

I miss being Eric’s wife. He was the lid to my pot. I sometimes watch Match of the Day when I’m alone as it makes me feel closer to him. He liked nowt better than to watch his team of a Saturday afternoon followed by a pie and a pint down British Legion.

Clint doesn’t like football, he couldn’t knock snow off a rope, but he’s a musical man and a gentle giant. He works as a disc jockey for hospital radio and has quite a following. Even when folk get better they still come back to listen to his show.

He used to visit Radio Manchester and play his hospital tape cassettes in reception. He hasn’t done that for a while, something to do with a restriction order, I wasn’t really listening.

He could be as big as Steve Wright given half the chance.

Clint’s been engaged to Mandy for three years but he still lives with me. She works in hospital laundry and specialises in stain removal.

Mandy's a good lass but I wish she wouldn’t come round so much, I can smell those hospital sheets on her. I always have my Fabreze handy and give the sofa a good going over after she’s gone.

As for me, I’ve been at the hospital shop for six years now. I was promoted to manageress after Edna Cribbins got caught with her hands in the till. She had champagne taste and lemonade money, that one.

This is the ideal job for me because I’m a people person. I’m looked upon as a social worker by my customers who all come to me with their problems.

Clint says I’ve got healing hands. I thumped his back and saved his life t’other week when he choked on an onion bhaji.

I’m also an Avon rep, which is quite a responsibility. I try to look my best and keep in shape. Folk often remark on how young I look for my age. I’m like Jane Fonda only with less liver spots.

I better skidaddle. Me and Ivy are off to a wine and cheese party downstairs. It’s arranged by the Autumn Dating Agency which is run by Molly Chadwick whose wig has seen better days.

We only signed up for a giggle, really. We're daft like that.

I’ve picked out a few words which might link my blog to Goggles or whatever the heck it’s called, I’ve listed them below, look.

But I can’t see for the life of me what a blog has to do with ordering a box of Wagon Wheels on t’ internet.

Cheerio for now. Love from Sylvie x