It was well into the next afternoon by the time the men woke, most definitely the worse for wear.

‘I think the ale was off again,’ groaned Sean.

‘No, Sean. The ale was fine, the fact we had a cart load of it is the issue.’

‘Oh. Still crazy times eh? That mad plan about the virgins and all.’ Sean shot a sideways glance at Andy to check his reaction.

‘Aye, mad it was. But maybe it’s just mad enough,’ was the response.

Sean jumped up, turned a bit green and gripped the edge of the bed. ‘You’re not serious Andy?!’

‘By Thor I am!

‘But….’

‘But what? Look we’re out of options. The village council are looking to me…us…I mean, to sort this mess out. It’s not like we’re not sought after, take that Alice with the freckles, I’ve seen the way see looks at me.’

‘She’s got a squint, Andy. And speak for yourself, you’re a hand taller than me and half a breadth wider.’

‘Don’t do yourself down Sean, there’s plenty that’s attractive about you, with your err…thick hair and err…strong features. If I was a young virgin then…you know…’

There was an awkward silence.

‘I think I’m going to . . .’ Sean made it to the window. The peasant below was not best pleased and shouted many profanities in Sean’s direction.

Andy pulled the woollen blanket back over his head.

A short time later there was a knock at the door. Sean, still crouched in a foetal position under the window, peeked out to see who it was. ‘Oh no, Andy it’s the head of the council. He’s going to want an answer, what are we going to tell him Andy?”

‘Will you calm down! I’ll explain it, it’ll be fine. Andy hurled himself towards the staircase.

Composing himself, he answered the door. ‘Hello Alfred, I was just on my way to see you. Come in, come in.’ Andy motioned towards the table.

‘We thought the worst had happened, when we hadn’t heard from you, but then Eric, you know Eric – with the ears –  said he seen you in the tavern last night. I trust there was good reason for frequenting it rather than informing the council of what happened?’ He looked disapprovingly at Andy.

After what I went through in that foul cave, thought Andy to himself, I’ve a mind to tell him to get to Hades. Instead, he pulled up a stool and prepared to explain the awful predicament he was now it.

Sean had half-crawled to the top of the stairs to listen. Andy seemed to be making his position clear, but he wasn’t sure how the elder was taking it. He seemed very quiet. He craned forward, lost his grip and went plummeting down the stairs. He landed in a heap at Alfred’s feet, feeling sicker than ever.

‘Hello Sean,’ said Alfred. ‘Bad ale again?’

‘Something like that,’ mumbled Sean.

Andy rolled his eyes. ‘I was just explaining our plan, Sean.’

‘Plan!’ Cried Alfred jumping up, ‘you seriously call that a plan? And I suppose it was your idea?’ He waved at Sean, who was still lying on the floor.

Sean opened his mouth to protest, ‘Actually, it was mine, Alfred,’ said Andy. ‘And unless you can think of anything better I suggest we all sit down and thrash out the finer details.’

Alfred paused, as much as he hated to admit it to a dim hulk like Andy, there didn’t seem to be many other options. He sighed and resumed his seat. Sean dragged his throbbing head and bruised body to the remaining stool and slumped onto the table.

The three sat there for many hours, the fire was lit, food was consumed, diagrams were etched into the table and ale was thought of often. Finally they reckoned they had a half decent and idiot proof plan. Even Sean understood it.

All the men slept peacefully that night, confident that they were doing the right thing for the greater good of the village – and with just a hint of a smile about what their impending tasks entailed.

Dealing With Dragons – Part 1

‘So, what you’re saying is if we give you one virgin every year you won’t burn the village down?’

‘In a nutshell, yes.’

‘Right. Not sure how well that’s going to go down with the lassies.’

‘Not my issue, you came here to ‘broker a deal’ as you put it and that’s the deal. Take it or leave it.’ The dragon casually flicked his tail and stared heavily at the tiny runt of a man before him.

‘Umm…why virgins specifically? I mean, what difference does it make?’ Despite looking like a runt to the dragon, the man was, in fact, the strongest and largest from the village. Being more brawn than brains had made him candidate number one to meet with the dragon and sort this whole unfortunate affair out.

‘Does it really matter?’ The dragon was finding this whole debacle tiresome, who’d have thought it was so hard to secure one measly virgin a year! If the man before him was the standard in the village the place must be crawling with them, one less would surely be a good thing?

‘I suppose not, it’s just a bit of a specific request and if I had a decent reason it might be easier to explain to the girls. Might make them a bit more…well…willing.

‘It’s not a volunteer program.’

‘No…’ The man was unsure where to go from here. He’d exhausted almost every method and bargaining tool the village council had shoved at him. He was just going to have to agree and work the details out at a later date.

‘So, we have a deal then?’ The dragon knew fine well it was a deal, this was not his first virgin contract, they always gave in; what other choice did they have?

There was a pause as the man considered the question. ‘Yes. Ok we have a deal.’

‘I want the first one by sundown in two weeks. No virgin, no village. Are we clear?’

‘Two weeks!’

‘Are. We. Clear?’

The man stood scuffing his feet like an admonished school boy. ‘Yes. We’re clear.’ He muttered under his breath as he left the sticky darkness of the cave; the council were not going to be best pleased with this. Not pleased at all.

Sitting with his usual ale in the tavern that night he tried to explain the outcome to his best mate Sean.

‘But Andy, why virgins?’ questioned Sean.

‘Well, I asked him and he said it didn’t matter why. To be honest, things were getting a bit dodgy with the whole not-getting-eaten thing and I didn’t really have any choice but to agree. Figured I’d come up with a better plan later.’

‘And have you?’

‘Err…I was hoping you’d help with that.’ Andy looked up hopefully at Sean.

Sean looked back blankly for a moment before his face lit up: ‘We need more ale,’ he proudly announced.

‘That’s it?! More ale? The Grand Plan is ale?’

Sean nodded solemnly. ‘I always think better with ale.’

‘Well, I suppose it’s a start,’ said Andy.

Four, five, or it might have been eight ales later, they were discussing the available options. So far killing the dragon was out (deemed too much hard work and they didn’t have the appropriate weapons) and killing all the virgins was out (pretty much for the same reasons as above). Currently they were toying with the idea of going on an ‘expedition’ which involved travelling some distance away for a considerable amount of time and pretty much leaving the rest of the village to it.

‘Where would we go though? I mean, really, what options do we have location-wise? Add to that what we’d do for a living and really, can you even wash your own tabbard Sean?’

Sean looked offended. ‘Look, I don’t see you coming up with any other options.’

Andy supped on his ale and pondered on this. ‘The dragon wants virgins right?’

‘Yes.’

‘What if there are no virgins?’

‘No virgins?’

‘No virgins. If there aren’t any virgins to eat then he’ll move on. It’s not like we’re refusing to hand them over. There just won’t be any to hand over.’

‘Will he buy that do you think? Won’t he just burn the village down anyway? He is, you know, a dragon. It’s kind of what they do.’

‘That might just have to be the risk we take Sean.’

‘Andy, how will we make sure there’s no virgins?’

Andy held his pint up and smiled, ‘Sean, I think it’s time that we stood up and did our duty to the village.’

Sean grinned, ‘when do we start?’

‘No time like the present!’

They both rose with gusto, swayed briefly and came crashing back down to the bench with a thump.

‘Or tomorrow,’ hiccupped Sean.

PART 2, coming soon!

Mx

I’ve been productive in other areas though, trying to network (still rubbish at it – I promote other people for a living really well, just not myself) and writing fiction (not rubbish at that, thankfully) so I suppose you could say I have reason for neglecting the blog update side of things. I’ve also woken up with an ear infection and feeling as miserable as Katie Price without fake tan.

I’ve had some really good shoots of late which have produced some great results and the old MM portfolio should hopefully be getting a bit of a revamp soon. So thanks must go to Alysta R, GeeTee Photography and Technical Boy for letting me fall over in front of their cameras and get personal with 50s memorabilia. I’m still not shooting as much as I’d like, neither am I promoting the AevalFyre stuff enough – new name, same nakedness.

For the moment my attention has been back on writing. Pulling together a catalogue of existing work and producing new works for various competitions and publications. The end of September is The Small Wonder Short Story Festival in Sussex (http://www.charleston.org.uk/smallwonder/)and I’m hoping to try my luck at The Slam competition there. Reading my work out to others is daunting but very much a step in the right direction. The story for it is half written. The ending is, as yet, is in my head.

In other big news, I’m coming off the Tea. Weaning myself off in case it’s the consumptions of numerous cups over the course of a day that is affecting my sleep. I’m down to one cup a day. It really is quite tragic for a junkie such as myself. Sympathy appreciated in the form of teabags in the post.

Please.

Before I go wandering the streets with a cup of boiling water in search of a dirty teabag.

Mx

Flip flops. The noise of them makes me want to hurl myself off the end of the pier. No, scratch that. Not me, everyone wearing them. They either drag their feet across the ground like an angsty 13 year old or flip-flap their way along sounding like a gay horse wearing tap shoes. And that little bit that goes in between your toes? It does nothing but rub and cause pain. I’d rather flounce around in a pair of six inch heels – at least they look pretty.

This weekend has mostly consisted of walking (lots of walking – although not in six inch heels), tea drinking, working on character backgrounds and lots of Carnivale. I found a bowls club and had an amusing conversation with the steward who clearly could not believe someone as young as me had walked in off the street to ask about becoming a member. It possibly made his year.

The other useful discovery was a yoga/pilates/general treat yourself well place offering lots of classes and treatments. Even more bendiness ahoy.

I’m hoping the notion of taking random pictures of the sea wears off eventually, but at the moment my camera phone is full of pictures of the sea and the beach. Like this one:

Looksee its the Sea!

I guess I still feel like I’m on holiday, despite getting up each day and going to work I can’t get the notion that I’m on holiday out of my head. The one downside is that I can’t go out without being thoroughly smothered in the factor 50, otherwise known as the factor goth (pinched from fb – it’s such an accurate phrase!) as my peely wally Scottish skin can’t handle all this sunshine. It takes a lot of work to be this pale.

Anyhoo, time for a cup of tea and a nap. ‘Tis all the sea air.

Mx

However, despite a mostly relaxing weekend, it has been somewhat productive and I managed to get a metal futon for the new room so guest have somewhere to sleep when they come visit. There’s enough room in the living room to swing a Jo (Japanese staff) so I think I might see if there is any classes nearby. I have also found belly dancing classes locally. I need to get me some jangly bits.

For the first time in ages, I spent most of today baking, choc cookies and vanilla biscuits. I should buy black food colouring and make BDSM biscuits to mix in with them. Crazy.

Cookies and biscuits!

First day of the new job tomorrow, so a bit nervous (hence the baking – if all else fails bribe them) but hoping it goes alright. Frankly, I’m a bit screwed if it doesn’t. All shall be well and there shall be Tea and (my)biscuits.

Only been here a couple of days and, although it’s really quiet and quite pretty, I have to say the rudeness I’ve encountered has been slightly shocking.  A bloke had a pop at an old woman for not noticing a brat that was running around a very busy shop in case she bashed her with her basket.  I suggested he keep said brat under control instead of bitching at old people. And I accidently bumped into a woman (and promptly apologised) in WH Smiths while perusing the magazines and she gave me a look that could have put me six foot under in a heartbeat.  I suspect a considerable number of people may come across the sharp end of my tongue if it continues.

I also think that I’ll become an expert OAP dodger in under a week, they are lethal – especially motorised ones. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were in some sort of pedestrian knockdown league. I would be if I was old.

More southern adventures to follow!

Mx

The house is a 3d puzzle of boxes and bags and it is taking a bit of maneuvering to move around my room, but I’m slowly getting there and fingers crossed that I should be ok for next Thursday when my lovely mate Phil is coming to help me move. Packing has allowed me to discover vacuum packing, it really is a task of pure joy and oddly therapeutic and does in fact save masses of space. Just like it says on the tin.

Another spot of good news is that I am getting published in the July edition of Scarlet Magazine. Not for my modeling but actually for my writing, which I am very pleased about considering it was my first attempt at this particular genre.  Part of the idea of moving close to the sea is that it inspires me to write more and also gives me the space and time to do more of it.

For the past year I have felt like I’m stuck in a chaotic chasm filled with jagged jigsaw pieces and now it seems that I’m edging upwards and the pieces are falling into place. It’s a way from perfect but the life compass seems to be pointing in the right direction and thankfully I’m feeling like I want to write more again.

I am also hugely looking forward to moving into the rather large flat that I’ve found. It has many plus points, a built in closet with plenty of shoe storage is only one of them. Another is that it’s two minutes from the beach and some beautiful grassy lawns.

Despite having a quiet year for the modeling work so far, it’s looking like I may have some lovely shoots over the summer and I was very pleased to get to ASYULUMseventy7′s once more before I left. This man has tied me up probably more than anyone else has and I’ve learned so much from him regarding ropework. In fact, the lovely Black Lotus was also there at Sunday’s shoot and she very kindly let me practise on her. The result is below.

Black Lotus in a Dragonfly Sleeve

Although we had been speaking electronically for some time this was the first time I had met her and she was good fun to shoot with. Plus, considering how incredibly clumsy we both are, we managed to stay remarkably upright for the duration. I suffered a *slight navigational fail en route so I was quite late in getting there but I think we still got some pretty good shots, and if nothing else it was good to spend time with friends.

Which is what I did the rest of the weekend. Leaving drinks in York on Friday night with the York crowd and some lovely, if a little odd, leaving gifts. It was good to see everyone out and reminded me how much I am going to miss them all. It’s been seven years since I left Scotland and in that time I have surrounded myself with some utterly wonderful and special people. I had the same thought whilst dancing like a spanner in Geof’s kitchen in Leeds on the Saturday night.

Still, I have no doubt that with the lure of numerous Victorian tea rooms they will all be down to visit me whilst I live out my dotage down south.

Tea and biscuits

Mx

The Saunter Hame

‘I’m shhinging in the rain…just singgging in the…OW!’

He landed with a thud on the pavement gazing confusedly up at the swaying streetlight he had only moments before been swinging around a la Fred Astaire.

Big Boab nearly choked on his cheesy chips and promptly missed the last step ending up on his arse next to Chick, who was still trying to figure out what had gone wrong on the lamppost stunt. ‘S’ok, s’ok, ma chips are ok.’

‘Sod yer chips man, ma backside is soakin,’ moaned Chick as he gripped the offending post to haul himself upright, or as close to as possible in his current condition.

Cheesy chips still delicately balanced above his head Boab lay on the pavement mentally assessing the best way to get up without risking the loss of his food.

Chick was confused as he looked around him, he’d had a few shandies but it slowly dawned on him that nothing seemed familiar to him. ‘Here Boab, d’you know whaur we are?’

‘Eh? Whit d’you mean, whaur are we? I’m oan the pavement an’ noo I’ve got a wet arse as weel.’

‘Nawww’ stressed Chick. ‘Ah mean…I don’t know where we are. Ah don’t recognise ony o’ this.’

Boab managed to get to his feet. Despite the fact that everything was a bit blurred round the edges, he had to agree with Chick, nothing was ringing any bells. Not the steps he’d just fallen down, not the ancient looking lamppost that had kicked off the whole falling down episode. Tottering, he looked behind him at the bridge they just walked over. Now he was even more baffled. A bridge? Over a river?

Boab took a deep breath, ‘Chick.’

‘Whit?’

‘Ah don’t think we’re in Kansas any more. Hic!’

The two men looked solemnly at each other for a moment before keeling over with laughter. They roared until the tears rolled down their cheeks and Chick wheezed, ‘Stop, stop it. Ah think I’m gonnae pee maself.’

This sent Boab into a deeper fit of giggles and his fiercely protected chips and cheese went flying into the air and landed with a splat on the cobbles.

That shut him up quick smart. He stared forlornly at the congealed mess, for a moment he contemplated trying to salvage some of it, but the wet would probably have soaked into the most of the chips by now and that was a taste he didn’t quite fancy – even after a few pints.

“Do ye think we got oan the wrong train?”

“Well, Chick, ah think you may be right. I think we might be in the wrong toon. Did ye no look to see where the train wiz going?”

“Ah thought you did?”

“Naw, I wiz following you.”

“Oh. I wiz following you.” Chick looked across at Boab, he couldn’t make up his mind which one of the two blurry figures looked more miffed.

“Shho, let me get this straight, neither of us know whit train we got oan or whaur we’ve ended up.”

“Eh…aye, that’s aboot the size of it.”

Just then a young couple, clinging to each other tighter than ivy to a wall of a house, breezed passed them “vous semblez beaux, je vous aime,” he whispered to his giggling love.

“Did you hear that?” asked Chick.

“Aye, I did hear it, but couldn’t a told you whit he said. Here, they must be even more pished than us if we cannae even un..un..undershtand them!” replied Boab.

This sent both men back into the kind of hysterics that only drunken people seem to get. That silent heaving laughter – with the occasional squeak escaping when breathing in – which creases up the faces of those afflicted into some kind of paralysed grimace.

So tightly had this fit gripped them neither noticed the looming figure of the police officer.

“Qu’est-ce qui est vous deux action ici?”

Chick and Boab carried on stumbling back and forth, slapping each other on the back and each trying desperately to get the other to stop.

“Qu’est-ce qui est vous deux action ici?!” shouted the police officer.

Both men spun round, nearly toppling over each other in the process.

“Whit’s that pal? You talking tae us?”

“Qu’est-ce qui est vous deux action ici?!”

“Is he talking tae us?” Chick whispered to Boab.

“Well, it’s either us or the lamppost, so I’m gonnae go for us.”

Boab waggled a finger at the policeman. “Here mate, I’m liking the fancy dress and a’ that but yer no in gay Paris, so in English if you please.”

The officer was not in the least bit impressed, he rolled his eyes and muttered under his breath. Dealing with drunken, lost foreign tourists in the early hours of the morning was not a pleasant task. Very few could even manage a measly few words in French let alone hold a civilised conversation. He took a deep breath and let out an exasperated sigh, which went entirely unnoticed by the two intoxicated men before him.

“Zis, sir, is not fancy dress, and yes, actually we are in Paris, and you” – he looked them up and down disparagingly – “are creating a drunken spectacle of yourselves on my streets.”

The policeman watched smugly as the seriousness of his words resonated with the two men. Clearly they had seen the error of their ways and he would have no trouble with them.

Chick and Boab stared at the policeman, then at each other, then back at the policeman, and back to each other. They could feel the giggles starting to rise again.

“Did he just say whit I think he just said?”

“You know Chick ah think he did. Err..are ye shure you’ve no had a couple of shandies the night pal, cuz that looks awfy like a fake polis outfit tae me.”

Chick solemnly nodded his head in agreement.

The light from the lamppost heightened the angry shadows that slowly spread across the bearded face of the policeman and even in the darkness the two men could see the purple-red hue that escalated up his neck from the top collar of his uniform coat.

“Ah think we might have pissed him aff Chick. I think there’s only wan thing left to dae.” Boab drew himself up and set his shoulders back.

The policeman’s fingers twitched towards his radio, the three men stood silently in the street. It was like an old cowboy movie standoff, but at midnight instead of noon.

“RUN!” shouted Boab and made a sprint for it. Chick, not quite keeping up with the apparent sudden change in tactics, dithered for a moment before running wildly after his mate.

The policeman sighed. It was late and he suspected they would probably collapse in a bush somewhere or, maybe by some miracle, make it back to their hotel.

Both men ran until their legs were shaking and they were flat out of breath, which meant they’d barely cleared two streets. Chick crumpled to the ground wheezing violently, while Boab with a couple of years less of smoking 40 a day on him, lent heavily on a pillar.

After recovering his breath, Chick looked closely at the pillar Boab was leaning on. ‘Boab look at that sign there, dae you ken whit it says?’

Boab looked up, squinting, and he slowly realized that it was in French. Boab paused for a moment as the realisation hit. ‘Eh, Chick, ah think we can safely say that we got oan the wrang train.’

‘Bugger,’ said Chick.

‘And you know ah think that guy might have been a polis right enough.’

‘Ooh bugger, so are ye saying we’re really in Paris?’ asked Chick. ‘Boab whit are we gonnae dae?’

The look of panic on Chick’s face sent Boab off into another fit of giggles, but this time Chick was having none of it.

‘Naw, Boab this isnae funny, my auld dear is gonnae kill me! Boab. Boab, come oan!’

Boab wiped the tears from his face and tried to look poker-faced at Chick. ‘Right, right, don’t panic. A’ we need to do is get tae the train station an’ it’ll all be okay.’

Chick was sobering up fast, ‘Aye, that’s great Boab, cause we’ve nae idea whaur we are and…’

“Paris’, interrupted Boab.

‘Aye, Boab, Paris. So can you speak French then? Cause ah cannae.’

‘S, ok, S’ok,’ said Boab. ‘Right. We’ll go back and find that polisman and get him to gie us directions.’

‘That would be the polisman we just ran away fae after telling him he’s a fake?’

‘Well, aye, have you seen anither wan like?’

Realising there was nothing left to do both men trudged back in the direction they came. Thankfully the policeman hadn’t got that far due to the sneaky cigar under the eves of the bridge.

Scuffing their feet and nudging each other the two men looked guiltily at the officer.

‘Eh, ‘scuse us. Eh, we’re awfy sorry aboot that wee misunderstanding,’ mumbled Chick.

‘You zay you are sorry?’

‘Aye, aye, we’re sorry,’ said both men in unison.

After many hand gestures, the two men managed to explain what had gone wrong and a patrol car was called to get them back to the station. Safely on the train the two men had no sooner sat down than they passed out cold.

The shrill bing bong of the announcer woke them both up.

‘Wilkommen in ein Berlin.’

With the political leaders skipping along their yellow brick road campaign paths, it’s supposed to be our chance to make our views known and question the potential candidates on their respective policies but, given the effects of the recession, those views are numerous and varied. And people are angry. The result is random heckling and people lunging at politicians in the street determined to make their voices heard, venting anger and frustration at the so-called leaders of the country.

Politicians, regardless of party, cannot fix everyone’s individual problems yet that’s exactly what we want them to. We demand that they fix it, it is, after all, their fault as the media keeps reminding us. I’m in no way sticking up for Politicians but, being realistic and logical, where on earth do they even begin? Amongst the myriad of difficulties people are facing how do they pick the one that will make the most difference if they fix it? Previous experience tells us they almost always get it wrong and thus our faith in them is further diminished.

It’s disheartening and, quite frankly, depressing. Politics should not be depressing. It should be engaging and interesting. Politicians should be a representation of the people, not caricatures and stereotypes of class and culture. If the current candidates are going to run their campaigns in a ‘he said, she said’ manner then I suggest we hold a special edition of Gladiators to resolve it once and for all. And I do mean the original Gladiators with Wolf and Jet and the wee Scottish referee. First one up the travelator and through the paper thing wins.

Actually, either Gladiators or Total Wipeout would work. If only to see them all get punched in the face and fall in the mud.

Mx

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=6915262343&ref=search&sid=535412203.3236116916..1

I’m not sure I could tell you the last time I filled up at a BP station, even less so an Esso one. Since the larger supermarkets launched their own petrol stations they have always been amongst the most competitively priced per litre and as such won my fickle loyalty over pretty quickly.  The fact that I pass Morrisons on the way to work means that they’ve supplied my car with the majority of fuel I’ve needed for gallivanting about.

Truth be told, I don’t believe it will make much difference to the horrendous prices. I know a lot of eco-enthusiasts will pipe up about using public transport or other modes of transport like bikes or Shanks’ Pony (Google it) but sometimes it just isn’t viable and I, for one, need to use my car to earn a living. I agree in principle with the people behind all these boycott campaigns but can’t help feeling they’ve not quite put the spark plugs in the right places to ignite any lasting effect.

The Chancellors debate on Channel 4 last night didn’t yield any answers on the matter either. It didn’t yield answers on a hell of a lot to be honest and the only surprise was the fact the Vince Cable got a few laughs and rounds of applause. It seems the petrol price issue is one which is not important enough to warrant serious discussion amongst our politicians, understandable, what with them being really busy pimping themselves out, decorating second homes and stubbornly avoiding accepting responsibility for the mess the economy is in.

They’ll get a shock if there’s a sudden rise in unemployment due to people not being able to afford to get to work, then it might just make their radar.

I’m intrigued to see if this, and other campaigns planned for May 1st, actually record any success. Does it still count as a boycott if I just don’t go, but just use the word boycott all day?

Mx

Forgive me for being naive but I was under the impression that there were slightly more pressing matters affecting the British populace than the price of a can of cidey. I’ve just taxed and MOT’d my car – my battered, old wee car – so it’s all good and roadworthy. Unfortunately I can’t really afford to put petrol in it, which is somewhat of an issue for a self-employed PR consultant who needs to get to meetings and visit clients who are in remote areas.  With prices expected to hit £1.20 for petrol I’d like Mr Darling to tell me just how exactly I can carry on working given my current ratio of income (fluctuating often downwards) to (ever-increasing) expenditure.

In fact, I have a whole big ol’ list of questions I’d like answered, but it seems that our politicians are even less inclined than usual to answer anything. Whispers of an election date of the 6th of May leaves 6 weeks today until we’re all meant to troop out and make our mark on a little bit of paper, and I have never known such confusion and apathy amongst potential voters. We don’t like Labour, but are miffed at the Conservatives, the Lib Dems are…well…answers on a postcard please, and can anyone give me a comprehensive policy list of any of them?

Furthermore, the word stealth is being banded around by rival parties and political commentators, the Oxford English Dictionary give this definition of the word:

a cautious and surreptitious action or movement. Origin: originally in the sense theft: probably related to steal.

If the expenses scandal has taught us anything it’s that our jolly old politicians are fairly blatant in their activities, and cautious isn’t really a word that springs to mind when they’ve been diving in headfirst to save the banks. I think they’re far more au fait with the origin of the word than they would care to admit, even when they’ve been caught out red-handed.

And yet, maybe in just six weeks time and likely still blinkered and in the dark, we will be asked to vote these people into power and give them the reins to steer the country ever closer to complete collapse. So, Mr Brown, Mr Cameron and Mr Clegg, I’ll tell you what, you come round and we’ll sit down for a cup of tea and we’ll have a sensible chat with no paper waving or bench slapping, I think only then would I (and likely everyone else as well) be able to make an informed decision. Best get cracking, that’s a lot of tea that wants drinking.

Mx