Hmmm... I wonder what to talk about? Maybe the event of the year? Yes, I think that's it.

So, congratulations to the future King of England and his new Missus!

That, ladies and gentlemen, is the subject of this bloggio. Now, I won't lie to you. Until this morning, I wasn't really one of those people who'd jumped onto the whole Royal Wedding band wagon. But then I went into the lounge and found Mum with a bottle of bubbly (yes, bottle) that she'd cracked open at the grand old hour of 10:30 a.m. So, wanting to be the diligent daughter that I know I am, I thought I'd keep Mum company and enjoy the festivities with her. And I have to say, once I got nuzzled into the empty three seater sofa and tucked my feet under the fluffy cushions I realised that I actually secretly wanted to watch this shindig. Plus, it was a convenient excuse not to have to get dressed. PJ's are so comfy, don't you know? They're the next big trend too (information that is hot off the press).

I won't lie. To my utter surprise I quite enjoyed watching loads of rich folk and scrutinising their ridiculously over-sized- or as it seems, under-sized hats (where were the regular sized specimens?) with my Mum. At the moment that Dad popped into the lounge, Princess Beatrice emerged from a chauffeur driven car wearing a beige outfit and what can only be described as a pair of lopsided antlers. Without thinking, Dad turned around (after requesting the fizz from Mum) and quite loudly asked the room why there was an extra from the Lion King at the Royal Wedding. (The room may not have been that large, but it was big enough for Dad to receive two sets of reproachful glances from Mum and me).

Between us, I may have agreed with Dad, but I felt I had to justify P.Bea's outfit choice due to the fact that we share the same gender. I felt that I had to stand united with her and declare my allegiance to woman-kind, when really in reality I know that there's no way I would dress up in something so un-hat like that defeats the point in even wearing a hat. Because, let's be honest: does that keep the sun of her face? I think not.

Hats aside, Mum and I waited eagerly for Kate to arrive as we got sucked into the romance vortex. Well, we- like zillions of other women (and possibly men), were not disappointed by THE DRESS. (Notice how THE DRESS is capitalised? Well, this would be because in the news broadcasting, THE DRESS was given as much attention as THE VENUE, if not more). When I saw her, my heart leapt a little: for her, the dream that every young girl has came true. Ever the romantic optimist, I shall stay true to myself and wait patiently for my day to arrive and the opportunity to wear a fabulous (but not as expensive as Kate's) dress. First, I need to find a fella. Here, I'm going to apply that old adage: good things come to those who wait.

Yes, I believe they do.

Well, I should really pop off. Since getting dressed, Mum, Dad and I have attended a nice street party in our road that's still going on. Lots of people are on their way to being slightly sozzled, which made the old 'people-spotting' game all the more amusing (but keep that between us)! You know the rules... watch people very carefully, but never give the game away. Honestly, it's thrilling stuff when you're mostly retired neighbours have been sipping a variety of drinks for much of the day. I know how to get my highs! Don't let it be said that my life isn't a whirlwind, because it's truly fabulous.

Anyway, I must go check on proceedings outside. Marjorie next door seems to be flashing a bit too much ankle to be appropriate...

Bank holiday, schmank holiday... enough is enough!!

Hello there. Long time no see: it's been a while for which I must apologise. You see, I have been delayed in my writing to you by the bank holidays... Bank schmank... they've just gone on and on and on. And yet, we have another two in the next week. Joy of joy! I don't think I know what to do with myself at the moment. I mean, Mum and Dad have both been crazy busy. Dad's been flying galore and Mum's been covering extra shifts at the hospital, so I've been left to fend for myself all alone in our big empty house...

Who am I convincing? No one. It's been alright. Although, the problem I have found with all these bank holidays is the amount of errands I've had to run on the parents behalf and Gma's. Plus, because they've all been so crazy busy I've had to do the rounds.

You know what I'm talking about: the rounds.

Oh, you don't know.

Well, the rounds are when you spend the bank holidays visiting long-lost relatives you didn't even realise you had. I have seen great aunts and uncles and loads of old folk that are all biologically connected to me who I don't ever recall meeting in my life. You see, through an impartial vote (consisting of Mum, Dad and the brothers) I was elected as the official McManus representative for this year. So that meant that I had to do the rounds. Although, this year was worse than my last stint as I didn't recognise 99.9% of them due to additional wrinkles obscuring facial landmarks. (However I did recognise my Great Uncle Sydney due to the abnormally large mole on the end of his elongated left ear).

Anyway, moving swiftly on! Today we McManuses had a barbecue in our garden. It was a 'BYOSD' (better known as 'bring your own stuff do'), but I didn't BAS (bring any stuff), because I figured that my presence was enough of a gift.

Only joking! No, I didn't bring any stuff because the barbecue was being held at my house... Well, I say my house, but really I mean the parents' house. However, by proxy it is my house because I live here and because I am their daughter and we abide by the policy 'what's mine is yours' (but only when it's convenient, and this was one of those convenient moments).

It was a nice day. Mum was definitely the hostess-with-the-mostess and Dad was unquestionably the barbecue king, though why that is I have never known. This year, I took the liberty of reqeusting my sausages be 'medium-rare' in the hope that they'd only be ever so slightly charred. But no, that request fell on deaf ears as Dad truly out-did himself this year when he presented cremated sausages that disintegrated the moment they caught sight of a bap. Oh Dad, please retire the apron and step down from your post as barbecue king. Retire gracefully while you still have some barbecue dignity left and pass the apron onto one your two sons. They will gladly receive the honour of barbecue prince, because I don't think you're ready to relinquish the title of barbecue king... Ah, parents.

On other matters, I thought I ought to let you know that all is forgiven between my friend Sunshine and myself. We've put our little spat behind us now and are ready to move on. I have said that he may reinstate his hat since the twins (bites) have left me. All is now well in Mildred-land.

So, what are the barbecue morals that I have to share with you? Well, I think they're very important, given that we've got even more bank holidays to look forward to.

• Never- and I repeat, never, try to assist a father that considers himself to be king of the barbecue. Simply accept your lowly status as food carrier or even food eater (or at least food attempter).
• If you have to do the rounds, make a list of each person's distinguishing features and memorise before hand. It'll make life much easier.
• Always stay on good terms with Monsieur Sunshine, otherwise he might try to burn you... I have learnt my lesson after my blaspheming of him last week...

Oh deary me. My mind has gone on strike.

Ladies and gentlemen.

Hello.

I write to you today with a heavy load preoccupying my mind. I am afraid, my mind has gone on strike. You see, I am greatly concerned with this weather, and what it is doing to me. At long last, my orange tint has finally begun to subside, but I won't lie: I've moved on since that incident. I've got more serious things concerning me; namely the weather.

Not to be a misery-head, but when will it end? I don't think I can cope with much more sunlight, because we all know what sunlight does... that's right: it opens a can of worms. And once a can of worms has been opened, it's very hard to close it again because of the guilt issue. Who wants to be responsible for confining a worm family to life in a tin? Nobody. That's why I emptied my (metaphorical) tin into the compost heap- I thought it would be the opportunity of a lifetime; the chance for them to settle down and start afresh.

But anyway, look at me! What am I like? Talking about worms?! Oh dear Mildred, oh dear. But in my defence, the reason for this is two-fold:

1. My mind is a series of tangents at the moment because...
2. ... with increased sunlight levels comes increased bug levels. And bugs, ladies and gents, BITE.

I know this because I am harbouring twins. No, I am not pregnant. But yes, I have twins.

They are twin bites.
On my stomach.
Specifically on the belly button region.

They are not nice. They are bright pink and icky and I hate them. So by proxy, I hate all bugs and am in training sessions to see if I qualify to use the term 'bah-humbug' in the summer, because by secondary proxy, I intensely dislike the sun.

My bah-humbug-ness is becoming increasingly worse because I think that I am a bite magnet. It's like, all the crazy insects who get their highs from troubling people seem to be attracted to me. Yes, me, Mildred. Just as Father Christmas has a list that he checks twice to see if you're naughty or nice, I suspect that the Queen Bug has a list of names which is topped with mine. Superb (if you're the bugs that is). Oh cripes (if you're like me that is).

So you see, the twins are causing me jip and I blame the bugs. But most importantly, I would like to ask the meteorologists and weather people, where are the April showers?? If they don't return soon, I'm going to have to defect to a much chiller country. 

Anyway, I'm going to leave you here. I don't really have much left to say other than two very peculiar questions?

1. I saw a navy car yesterday evening and I got thinking: are navy cars a rarity? Is it just me, or do we seldom see them? Are they a cheap alternative to black cars? So when the car man says, 'what colour would you like Sir?' / 'Er, I think I'll have black or navy.' / 'Oh. Well, black cars cost an extra £500. Navy costs an extra £50.' / 'I don't think I need to think about it. I'll take it in navy please.'
2. I have had computer troubles lately and have been left to ask myself if technology is prematurely ageing us? The stress that my temperamental computer induced was evidently lining my face. Not good.

Well, all in all. It's a mixed batch. Yes, my orange sheen is receding. Unfortunately, I have become a bite magnet.

So, I would like to end this blog with one final thought.

• Embrace the sun while it lasts because I forecast rain, rain, rain. 

Until next time, I must love you and leave you.

Bye!

I'm taking matters into my own hands and renaming Sunday GOODAY.

Hello, hello, hello!

It's been a while since I have greeted you all properly, so I thought that in the spirit of 'summery thinking', I will say a little hi-dee-hi. And I have to say, what fabulous weather we are having. Oh dear, I hear you say, she's talking about the weather. Well, I won't deny it: yes I am. I am, my mother's daughter through and through. Although, as you can imagine, the weather gets talked about a lot in our household, what with Dad being a pilot and all.

Anyway, sticking with the weather for just a moment more, I thought that I'd keep this blog short, sweet and to the point. After all, who wants to be sat at a computer on a day like today when it's so fabulously sunny outside in April? (Please don't say I've tempted fate... I'm adding a disclaimer (to be sure)... A-hem. I- Mildred Annabel McManus, would like to certify that just because I pointed out that we are having an unusually Mediterranean (usually) rainy month, I cannot be responsible for any unforeseen changes in the weather direction- i.e., rain. It's not my fault!).

So, I have a few things that I thought I'd share with you today, and then I shall bid you farewell.

It seems to me, that Sunday should be renamed as 'Good-deed-day'- GOODAY for short, because I have done yet another good deed today. Last week, I took Gma to Church. This week I did not. The embarrassment factor was too high, what with my abysmal date with Raymond still lingering, not to mention my tangerine tint. Urgh, when will it go away? I am in quarantine. Well, self-induced quarantine at least. Mum tried to help me cover it up, but I don't see how it's possible to disguise an orange face. Scratch that, I know it's not possible to disguise an orange face. We just ended up going through the colour spectrum until I was bordering on Oompah-Loompah territory. Understandably, that was the moment I confined myself to the house. (I dared not risk enjoying this sunshine too much, in case- horror of all horrors, I get a tan and that brings out the fake one even more...).

So with that in mind, I definitely did not take her to Church- look how that good deed turned out: it back-fired gloriously. When will I learn? Perhaps, good deeds are over-rated. But I took my chances and performed one today. Luckily, there was no man to impress (unless of course you are talking about men of the canine variety). 

Mum and Dad were desperate for me to get out of the house. You know, keep my spirits up (and all that stuff), as by this point, I'd already done the deed and begun to explore the dangerous territory of self-pitying. Not good. You've guessed it... I'd cracked open the chick-flick DVD's in the hope that I might be able to live one of those lives and meet a man who whisks me off my feet, gives me butterflies, and then be done with it. Hollywood makes it look so easy, but what do they know? I mean, it's highly unlikely that I'm going to fall head over heels with my best friend after about a million years. Although, it is highly likely that at some point, I will literally, fall head over heels.

... where was I? Oh yes, I was going to disclose my good deed: today, I took our next door neighbour's dog- Mowbray, for a very long walk. You see, Marjorie and Alan are getting on a bit in years, so I thought I'd give Mo the chance to stretch his legs. It was also the excuse I'd been looking for to get out of the house. Plus, both Marjorie and Alan wear glasses, so neither one of them has 20/20 vision which was excellent for me. It meant that they didn't even notice the tropical shade of my skin. In fact, they said how much I 'glowed with the sun' and how healthy I looked, so not a total disaster after all on the fake tan front.

Anyway, I took Mowbray for a nice long walk. (Well, I say it was nice: it was a double dumper walk). Number two's aside, it was rather lovely. The only people I saw out and about were fellow dog walkers- none of whom commented on my citrus tinge, because they were too distracted by Mo's peculiar bark.

After a bit, I let Mo off his lead and then he went and did the obligatory territorial number one's in the middle of a bed of over flowering daffodils. A fellow dog owner gave me a look of disgust, as I feigned interest in an unusual marking on the tree I was leaning on and muttered loud enough to be heard- 'don't look at me, he's not even my dog'. Then, they did a very loud 'tut' and glared at me as their poodle trotted alongside them looking all proud and important and well behaved. Honestly, there was nothing I could do. Up against that poodle, Mowbray didn't stand a chance. After territorialising, Mo approached this jet black poodle called Dave (seriously? Yes). They had a bit of dog-frontation, but before anything could happen, Mo came scarpering back to me with his tail between his legs as this little poodle barked him away. I have to say, that was a classic display of short-dog syndrome. But truly there's no way a poodle named Dave could have messed with a dog who's real name is Melton Mowbray (seriously? Yes)- named after Marjorie and Alan's beloved pork pies.

Anyway, the rest of the walk passed without incident and when I returned Mr Mowbray

So, it just goes to show, it's easier to impress canine men than it is human men.
But, my final pieces of advice to you before I sign off are:

• If you are nervous about the colour of your fake tan, find an elderly neighbour (preferably one you know), and ask them what they think. If their sight's had better days, then the compliments will rain down on you and you'll leave feeling totally superb.
• Avoid the old chickus-flickus at all times. They are designed to make you feel worse, not better. 
• Best not to let your dog pee on flowers unless they are in the comforts of their own back garden.

Until next time, I bid you farewell!

Bye!

P.S. Honestly, I had every intention of writing a short blog, but you know...

I wanted to bring you a success story, but I have to face facts: I am a dating disaster...

Let me ask you a series of very important questions.

• Is my life destined along the path of single-hood-dom for ever and ever and ever?
• Has my life already been mapped out by Mr and Mrs Fate (notice how they are a couple. The Fate's can be cruel- I recommend learning that lesson sooner than it's taken me)?
• Does my name act as a date repellent? After all, Mildred screams one word: OLD.
• Why does it seem to be that the harder I try, the more likely it is that something will go wrong?
• Why oh why do I go to pieces on a date?

I wish I knew the answers, but I don't. What I can tell you is the reason I am asking these questions.

Yesterday, I went on a date.
Yesterday, I went out with Raymond.
Yesterday, I made a complete t*t of myself.

My story begins after a meagre and unsatisfying day of procrastination and job-hunting. (I'm sad to say, there was no success story here- I have not yet found employment). At about 4 p.m. I decided to begin the 'pre-date ritual' routine- something we all do, but keep secret. I had a fabulously long shower (22 minutes to be precise, but forget I told you that...), did some crucial leg maintenance as they tend to go into hibernation during the winter months and then tweezed my eyebrows into respectability. Then, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and thought 'hmmmm', how can I improve this pale and un-interesting body of mine? Alas, the answer was not in my bedroom, but buried deep in the murky depths of the bottom drawer in the bathroom drawer-thingy. That's right, against my better judgement I decided to fake tan. Well, I can tell you: that was my down-fall.

When Raymond and I were chatting, he said that he thought I was a classic 'English rose'... basically a polite way of saying pale and interesting (or un-interesting as the case may be). However, I wanted to improve my appearance, because that would greatly improve my chances of a post-date kiss. In honesty, I should have stayed as I was because there was no post-date kiss and I was orange.

On Sunday, I was an English Rose.
On Wednesday, I was an English Dandelion.
Today, as I write this, I am the colour of a satsuma.

Oh heck. This is not good. Hang on, hang on a minute.

......

I'm back. Blast! I've just consulted the fake tan bottle and it says that it takes up to 48 hours to reach your optimum shade... Well that's one good thing I guess: my colour has peaked, so things can only get better, right? Wrong. This fake tan says that it expired seven years ago and in the small print at the bottom, it says that after time, the formula becomes more concentrated, leading to a more intense colour. (Breathe deeply Mildred, just breathe deeply). I want to cry. I am orange. I want to be pale and interesting once more. I never want to eat a satsuma again.

But anyway, you're probably wondering what damage limitation measures I applied? Well, I dressed as though I were going to a funeral. Top to toe, I wore black; black shoes, black tights, black dress, black coat. I even worse black mascara. From a distance, I resembled a nun. You see, I had styled my hair to include a fringe that covered most of my face, but unfortunately this proved to be too impractical and I had to have a rethink as the curtains of hair would not stay open.

I asked my Mum if I looked okay: her silence spoke volumes.
I asked my Dad if I looked okay: his silence spoke volumes.
When I arrived in my car at Raymond's flat, I asked him if I looked okay: his silence spoke volumes.

Ladies and gents, we can conclude that I did NOT look okay.

After reaching this unsettling result, I drove us to the American diner that we had decided on. There, I immediately ordered myself a 'Little Drop of Heaven' (a drink, in case you were wondering). I thought it would be appropriate, but turns out it wasn't. I thought I would drink it and feel ephemeral. That never happened, because all I could think was 'eugh, Heaven tastes gross!' So very kindly, Raymond swapped his equally as icky tasting (but more masculine sounding) 'Ageing Rocker; The Jagger' cocktail for mine.

Understandably hoping to get this date over with ASAP, I ordered a classic American staple: the BBQ beef burger. I skipped the starters and later on, I skipped the desserts for cost purposes more than anything. We were being Dutch and splitting the bill 50/50, so I was trying to save a bit of my dwindling supplies of money. Raymond on the other hand was not. Me, frugal Mildred: £11.55 (including drink). Raymond, spendy Raymond: £27.90 (excluding drink). But the cheeky blighter then added our two bills together and then split it, so I had to pay over £20 when I didn't even eat half of what he did! I was not impressed. On Sunday I thought Raymond was a gentleman. Today, I no longer think that.

By the end of the night, after our lack of interesting conversation, I realised that the Sunday Raymond I saw was different on weekdays. He didn't laugh at my (quite frankly) hilarious jokes, yet he laughed at Gma's (quite frankly) appalling attempts at comedy. He didn't compliment me once, although I suppose I can let him off on this one- he'd really have to have been trying hard to find something good to say, given that I was a living tangerine disguised as a nun. But most importantly, there was no spark there. Our conversations were about as interesting as watching paint dry. And when I say that, I speak from experience. Watching paint dry is not a past-time I'd recommend to anyone, as it really is quite boring. No, scratch that. It's phenomenally dull.

When I dropped him home, curiosity got the better of me. I knew we were never destined to share the same last name, but I asked him anyway what his surname was as I knew it couldn't possibly be Raymond Dreamboat. Although, knowing what it is, I think I'd have preferred to be Mildred Dreamboat...

As it turns out, Raymond has a highly prestigious double-barrelled surname: he is a member of the ancient Cod-Swallop family whose family have roots dating back over 500 years. Obviously, I was somewhat confused. Was the 500 years thing supposed to impress me? Or was that supposed to detract from the fact that when you say his name fast it sounds like 'cods wallop'. To be honest, I wasn't disappointed. I was relieved. I could cross Mr Cod-Swallop off my list of potential suitors, because there's no way I want to be known as Mrs Cod-Swallop. No thank you.

Though my date with Raymond may not have been a success, I did take away some very important morals:

• Find out your date's name before the evening begins to save a lot of time and cods wallop.
• Never use your Grandmother as a replacement for Cupid on his day off.
• Never use fake tan that has passed it's sell-by date, otherwise you will go so fluorescent that you will virtually glow in the dark. I should know, because I'm glowing right now.
• Most importantly, embrace your inner English Rose so you don't have to become an English Dandelion.

Until next time, I hope to be able to write to you as a restored and de-orange-ified Mildred.

Yesterday I realised that Cupid is my Grandma.

Yesterday, I did a good deed.

Yesterday, I went to Church. You see, I don't really tend to go- maybe seven or eight times a year? I can't quite remember, but either way, it's not very frequently. Nope... the whole reason I went to Church was because I was doing a good deed and playing the part (on paper at least) of the loving, doting granddaughter to a rapidly ageing Grandmother (my Grandma AKA Gma, in case you're wondering. I didn't just pick some random old lady off the street and fob her off as my relative, although that may be what I do next time Gma asks me to do her a favour).

Now, the reason I occasionally venture out on a Sunday morning, choosing to fore go the obligatory lie-in, is so that I can take Gma to Church. She stopped driving twelve years ago when a bird flew (and consequently crash landed) on her windscreen. I was in the car with her and remember it well. Instead of continuing to the supermarket, I (yes me, Mildred), had to leave the safety of the car and retrieve the very still bird as Gma hastened to the vet's. Unfortunately, the cute old chap (the vet, in case you're wondering) said there was nothing that could be done and that the kindest thing to do was to put little Tom Cruise out of his misery. (We named him Tom Cruise because he liked to do crazy stunt work, though the real TC probably had a stunt double, but our little dude didn't and it cost him dearly).

Gma and I were both quite upset, but the vet said that Tom was getting on in years and that it was an inevitability really; apparently, he'd developed cataracts, so was virtually blind. The vet said we were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. I think though, because Gma was driving the car, she felt a terrible sense of responsibility. The vet-dude asked Gma how fast she'd been driving and she told him 36 m.p.h. 'In what zone?' he asked. 'In a 60 m.p.h. zone,' I replied on Gma's behalf, thinking to myself that that explains all the beeping, overtaking and occasional use of bad language from fellow road users. 'Ah,' he said. 'Therein lies the problem. If you had been going a tad faster, Mr Cruise would not have collided with your vehicle and would probably have been with us for at least another 5 minutes, before he would have met his untimely demise.'

Understandably, Gma was distraught. When we left the vets, we went round the supermarket in a daze. There, Gma swore that she would never drive again (although, this wasn't quite accurate as she still had to drive me home, and then back to her house. When she got home, that was when she technically stopped driving). The next day, the car was in the paper for sale.

So, that is one of the reasons that I went to Church. Usually, Mum takes Gma, but sometimes- not very often, she has to work a Sunday morning and the driving of Gma falls to me. The other reason I take Gma to Church is because she's never let me forget about our date with little cataract Tom. Apparently, it is partially my fault, because if I'd have been ready five minutes earlier, we'd never have met him. But I always argue that if Gma had been going the right speed... but I never get any further than that because Gma shoots me one of those looks that quite clearly states: 'THIN ICE- proceed with caution'.

Anyway, I went to Church and did the Churchly things with Gma and was presently surprised by the morning.

There was this little boy who was being baptised- he must've been about four or somewhere around that mark I'm guessing, because as the vicar was sorting out his microphone at the start of the service as it kept making those funny screeching sounds, this little boy- I think his name was Tommy (funnily enough), went up to him. Tommy then tugged his robes and this squeaky little voice said: 'I know you Mister. You were at my house last night, Mister.' Naturally, the vicar was evidently not used to being addressed as 'Mister' by some miniature human in a suit and was a bit flummoxed. However, after his composure had been regained, the service continued and then, when little Tommy (the person, not the bird), came to be baptised, he turned around afterwards and said in his squeaky manner: 'Thanks Mister, nice one.' Trust me, it was funny.

During the sermon I naturally let my mind wonder as I arranged my face into what I thought looked like an I'm-finding-this-a-very-profound-experience kind of expression. As my eyes drifted around the Church, I noticed something I'd never seen before. Sat at the organ was the most handsome man I have ever seen. He had dark wavy hair and bluey-green eyes and looked very tall, yet rugged as there was a slight hint of intentional (I think) manly stubble around his jaw. WOWZA, I thought, as I was gazing into the distance at Prince Charming, as well as gazing into our distant future together. 

And then, just as I was beginning to wonder what his surname was and if it would match my name, Gma elbowed me in the ribs because apparently I was swooning aloud, though I have no recollection of this. Then, she promptly reminded me where the loo's were, evidently mistaking my I'm-finding-this-a-very-profound-experience expression as an I-really-need-the-toilet one instead. Oh dear, not good.

After the service had finished, Gma decided to take matters into her own hands and interfere in my non-existent love life. Usually, I would object, but if truth be told, I was in no position to be turning down a bit of assistance in that area.

So, Gma strode up confidently to the music man and said rather loudly and matter-of-factly, 'Raymond, there's someone I'd like you to meet.' And then our eyes met and time stood still. He shook my hand and said 'hi' in a very masculine kind-of way. Silently I smiled, as I had evidently forgotten my name and how to speak, but also because I was captivated by his handsomeness up close.

Gma rolled her eyes and then proceeded to explain to Raymond that I was single and had been for quite some time; that I was 26, so pushing on in years; that the reason she suspected I was single was because I bought my pyjama's from Marks and Spencer and because I like Harry Potter; that I still lived at home and that she wanted to start the ball rolling so that she could have some great-grandchildren sooner rather than later.

Yet more silence on my part.

What do you say to that? Thanks Gma. Note: I am being ironic here.

But then, as Raymond was trying to digest all this information and work out if he should be running away, Gma pounced on him before he could get a word in edge ways. Before long, I learnt that Raymond was single (hurrah), that he had his own flat (very nice) and that he was 25- to which Gma turned around and said: 'Oh isn't that wonderful Mildred, you could have a toyboy!'

Blushing profusely, I glanced at Raymond who looked rather amused by the situation. Honestly Gma, I was recently thinking that honesty may have been the best policy, but now I'm not so sure.

As I looked away from Raymond, I looked skywards and silently asked God why he was punishing me. I do wonder if it's because I attend Church so infrequently, or if He just thought I needed to be punished. But to my utter astonishment, when Gma went away, Raymond and I got talking and then, he asked me out on a date! Can you believe that?! I certainly couldn't.

As I sat and waited while Gma had her coffee, I wondered if I had learnt any morals after my jaunt to the Church? Why yes, I had.

• Use an outspoken grandmother (ideally your own, but one with a good reputation borrowed from a friend will do), to get you a date. It works because your potential date can't possibly say no to an old lady, especially when they 'accidentally' let slip the old trump card: 'I don't know how much time I've got left, so...'.
• If using the above to assist in your love-life, always, always, always make sure that they only ever share the endearing information about you with potential dates and not the secret stuff that they should never know. It will spare your blushes.

Anyway, enough from me! Dear friends, I will let you know how my date with Raymond goes, so wish me luck!

I'm PIA-ing... I'm Post Interview Analysing and I can tell you I was not on form...

Yesterday, I had a job interview. Unfortunately, the job interview had me... I was not on form. It was not my finest hour: I have disgraced the ancient family name that I call my own and shamed the McManus household. As I write, I hang my head in shame (not just because I'm partially watching the keys, but also because I am ashamed). You see, it all started last week...

I suspected that things would not go well the moment I turned up at the wrong garden centre to drop my CV off.

After perusing the local paper, I stumbled across this job and thought, a-ha! I could do that! Lo and behold, I could not. However, before I realised this I promptly set about updating my CV and amending my list of key skills to suit the job. Can I really keep a plant alive for longer than a fortnight? No. Can I really work in an environment where I don't talk to anyone all day? No. Do I really know the difference between Taraxacum officinale and a dandelion? No. Yet I answered yes to all these questions on my CV... I tweaked the truth to make me more of an eligible candidate, but who doesn't? (I'm hoping that it's not just me who's dishonest, given as I've told you this now...).

But anyway, after deciding that my CV was good to go, I promptly set about delivering it to the garden centre. This, dear readers, is the beginning of the end...

Confidently I drove the 12 minute journey to the garden centre and boldly walked in. I requested the manager and handed him my CV with the obligatory winning smile that asks how their organisation has managed this long without me. However, my winning smile failed me for it was not returned. Instead, the man silently handed my CV back to me. Understandably I was confused. I was lost. I was alone... I was in a garden centre.

"I'm afraid we don't have any vacancies at the moment, Miss," he informed me.

"But- but, the newspaper said-"

"The newspaper said Watkin's Garden Centre, not Wilson's Garden Centre." He then paused for dramatic effect. "This is not Watkin's Garden Centre. This is my garden centre and I am Mr Wilson."

Oh.
My.
Goodness.
Me.

Major embarrassment!! Why, oh why could the ground not have swallowed me up? I muttered something incoherent to Mr Wilson and dragged my beetroot self to the exit. I stole a glance behind me and saw a very bemused Mr Wilson watching me go. Unfortunately, I made a fatal error in my glance and had continued to walk. Promptly, I collided with a pyramid display of Taraxacum officinale seeds. As my now sub-human coloured face and I frantically bent to pick them up, I saw that the Taraxacum officinale was in actual fact a common dandelion and realised that I would probably look like a bit of a ninny if I kept that on my CV. But by this point I was passed caring.

By the time I got back to my car, I was mortified. So I phoned my Dad to ask him where Watkin's Garden Centre was, only to be told that he was flying to Vancouver by his secretary. I then phoned my Mum, who asked me what good I thought it would do in phoning Dad when, to the best of her knowledge, he doesn't even realise that we have a garden shed. (Mum's not even sure if Dad is aware we have a garden, he spends that much time in there!). But anyway, Mum gave me directions and off I went in my pursuit of finding this new mecca of mine. When I got there, I handed my CV in before I could put my foot in my mouth and instantly left. Upon getting back home, I had to take a cold shower: it was the only way to stem the burning in my cheeks.

...

A few days later I received a telephone call. Next thing I know, I'm in the interview room, fumbling my way through. Somehow, I don't think that they thought my degree's would be as useful as I said they would. Will your degree's help you to lift the plants Miss McManus? (They make a very good point). No.

After, they took me on a tour of the greenhouses, but this was not good for me. The reason it was not good was because I had carefully selected my outfit the night before and opted for my black court shoes that I wear if I need to be taken seriously. Unfortunately, they failed me as they kept getting stuck in the holes in the floor... I think you'll agree: not good. But, in the spirit of my dramatic training, I kept to my script and feigned interest in a job I never really fancied. And this may, or may not, have been my downfall: I started to reel off all the facts I'd learned about Watkin's Garden Centre, only to be told that I was describing Wilson's Garden Centre.

So, I took that as a sign from the God's. Fate really didn't want me to get this job. I realised that the moment I saw the next candidate. You see, I had turned up in standard interview wear consisting of a white blouse, black pencil skirt and stockings and simple (fake) diamond studs. I think you'll agree: classic. I had however, accessorised my outfit with a superb purple coat that was belted at the waist and gave me a super figure (well, in silhouette form at least). Now, purple Mildred, really? I hear you ask. Yes, I reply. I chose purple because the day was rainy, grey, cold and dreary, so I thought that I'd spread some Mildred cheer and brighten up the interviewers' days. With hindsight, I think that may have backfired, because I saw that the next candidate was wearing a grey and lilac anorak. She had her hair scrapped back into a messy ponytail and was wearing (flat) trainers with unflattering man trousers. I started to doubt myself: was I appropriately dressed? Or did my appearance scream too high maintenance to make me an eligible candidate for the job? I don't know, but whatever it was I shall never know.

The following day I received a phone call from the garden centre people. They told me that I was their second choice and thanked me for my time. As I hung up the phone, I wondered why they'd thought it necessary to tell me that I was their second choice, because who enters a race with the intention of coming in second?

I won't lie, I did shed a tear, but I recovered fairly quickly. If it was meant to be, I'd have got the right garden centre.

Yet I have taken some very important morals and life-lessons from the experience:

• Don't pretend to know Latin plant names if you don't know the English. It can only lead to embarrassment. Trust me.
• ALWAYS research your market.
• ALWAYS ensure that you research the correct market.
• Never, and I stress never, wear high heels to a garden centre job interview when their footwear of choice is steel-toed boots.

I hope that my lessons have been of use to you and wish any of you pursuing a new job the very best of luck. Sometimes I'm learning, honesty really is the best policy.

Oh blast. There's a hole in my wallet... (or at least that's my story and I'm sticking to it).

I write this post to you as a previously wealthy woman. (Usually, Mildred and the term 'wealthy' are not found in the same sentence, but today they are... albeit for the wrong reasons). You see, having just recently had a birthday, I received several paper gifts (better known as money). But the problems with receiving such gifts are paramount:

• It is very easy to become quickly accustomed to this new-found wealth. However, in an instant your pocket can become even lighter than it was before. This is because you make an impulse purchase that you've been desperate to have for months, yet haven't quite managed to scrape together enough coins to make them stretch. Beware of this technique, because when the money's gone, it's gone good and proper.
• In my experience, birthday money seldom makes it into your bank account, which means that it only ever gets spent on unnecessary goods. How many new items of stationary can I possibly need? I must learn to say to myself enough is enough, before I end up penniless. But the problem with this is, I have never to this day followed my own advice. Other people have, and they tell me it's very good, but I'm yet to find out.
• An excess of money in one hit may suddenly make you exceedingly generous, so keep an eye on charitable spending.
• If you accumulate too much money too quickly, it can make your purse bulge and possibly cause it to go out of shape, which would not be good. (This of course depends on the establishment where your purse came from and if they made provisions in the fabric for those wealthier moments in life).
• Often, when you receive birthday money, you may or may not decide to use it to buy 'that new iron', or 'that new notebook'. However, next time these thoughts pop into your head, ask yourself if the money donor thought 'hmmmm, what shall I get them? An iron or some cash?' The question has, in the history of mankind, never been asked.
• Do not under any circumstances use your birthday money to pay off your credit card bill. I have done so in the past and it only leads to disappointment.

So, taking my own advice into account, I decided to treat myself to a few new things and went shopping for the day with my good friends, Ted and Nora. Luckily (you'll be relieved to hear), we all had the day off. There's none of this 'sickie' nonsense for Ted and Nora. Sadly, they've both been afflicted with the condition 'oh-my-goodness-I've-got-a-conscience-itous'. (And naturally, I'd like to here add that I too have this same condition, though I'm not sure if it's the same if you're out of work but looking? That's a grey area, a real grey one).

But anyway, I know what you're all waiting to hear... what did I purchase? Well, I can tell you that I bought six whole items (fortunately they were whole, because otherwise that would not have been cost effective). I bought:

• A packet of hairbands/ hair elastics, because I am very boring. But in all seriousness, I must ask if you are privy to the answer of one of life's greatest mysteries: where oh where do all the hairbands go after you've bought them? I worked it out, that in the last 10 years, I've probably bought over 350 hairbands... and do you know how many I am left with? 4, in a pot at home (evidently not where they needed to be). But please, if you do know the answer to this deep and meaningful philosophical pondering, please do let me know. Ta.
• A new pair of jeans that are truly fabulous. They look absolutely ancient, which means that they are very fashionably perfect (according to my Mum's weekly women's magazine, though they may be wrong as their target audience is 50+). Ted turned around in shock and asked me why I was going to buy a pair of second hand jeans. I told him they were first hand and he was so shocked, he spun around and accidentally knocked over a display tower of t-shirts with his flailing arm that the dude had just finished folding. Yes, it was a blush inducing episode, but I kept my cool... (at least until I saw the price tag)...
• A Jennifer Aniston DVD. (Sshhh, keep this one to yourselves, otherwise I'm sure to lose all my newly gained street cred).
• A book that had over 683 pages and was going on the cheap for £1.00. What a bargain, I thought to myself, so I got myself a bargain. Just don't ask me what it's called, because I didn't concern myself with the title.
• A t-shirt.
• A jumper with strategically placed holes (as well as the ones for the arms and brainal region). Nora thought I was joking. I was being serious. In fact, I'm wearing it right this instant, as I write to you.

Oh, the other thing I wanted to tell you was that yesterday, I road-tested a very small bag that I'd got for my birthday. Surprisingly, I found it to be not too shabby. In fact, I may even ditch the larger carrier in favour of the tiddler (but don't quote me, as this will probably change next week). But all in all, I had a lovely day with Mum and Dad... Whoa, did I just say that out loud? I meant Mum and Dad. No I didn't! I meant Ted and Nora. Yep, Ted and Nora. (NOTE TO SELF: stop talking Mildred, just stop).

Now, I have thought at great length (8 and a 1/2 minutes to be precise) about any morals that I have taken from my trip and they are:

• Take the train for a novelty experience if you are not a frequent railway user as the seats are surprisingly comfy and the scope for gossip is on a par with a nosey-parker's Heaven.
• Always request the gift of the classic, timeless 'cheque', from those who insist on giving money if you wish to have any left a week after your birthday.

Anyway, I'll see you again soon and let you know how my job interview goes. (But quick question: is honesty really the best policy when in a job interview? I think not. I mean, I think so!)

Oh, PS, yes, I confess, my parents were masquerading as my friends Ted and Nora, though in real life they are actually called Ted and Nora...

The day after the day before the day before: PBA time (Post Birthday Analysis)

I write this blog to you as a new woman. One who is not only another year older, but most importantly, another year wiser (however, since I have no wisdom teeth left, I'm not sure if this still applies).

But anyway, the reason we're all here. It's time for what I have over the years come to call 'The Post Birthday Analysis', AKA 'The PBA'.

So, I woke up in the morning (phew, because otherwise this blog would've been a very different story) and I had breakfast by myself- nothing out of the ordinary there. After, I got dressed and then set about doing the ironing, all the while waiting, for that inevitable moment when my stomach would drop to the floor and I'd think 'oh shoot, I'm another year older'. But it never came. I never experienced such thoughts... which now makes me worry slightly. Am I going to be walking along one sunny afternoon and then suddenly BHAM!, it hits me: my life is leaving me behind and the process of marination is quite simply accelerating? I mean, I hope I get some warning before the oh-crikey-I've-passed-the-quarter-of-a-century-mark moment. I'd at least like to be seated in a dimly lit room with a nice chilled glass of fruit and barley squash (preferably orange), and be able to ponder and experience the moment before it passes.

.........

Right, we're okay, we're back on track. The moment has been and gone. So where were we? Oh yes, I was telling you about my nothing out of the extraordinary day. After I'd done loads of stuff (the technical term used to imply that someone has done loads, when in actual fact, they've basically day-dreamed the day away and end up flummoxed when questioned on their day. The word 'stuff' is used, because it is the only word that pops into the mind when under the pressure and scrutiny of inquisitive parents). However, I did decide that the whole 'getting older thing' isn't really that bad. Personally, I think that the extra year gives me a bit more of a standing compared to when I was but a young girl of 25. I think that 26 makes me sound a bit more distinguished. In fact, I think that I'll skip my next birthday and bypass the one after that and stay at this age for the next few years. Yep, I'll do that.

Anyway, after the day passed without much event, so did the evening. True to form, the parents had arranged a birthday do. We went to a nice little quaint restaurant that served basically, any concoction you could think of. Neither of my brothers could go (Scott was on a date; and Graham? Well, Graham's just Graham. Enough said). So Mum and Dad invited our long-standing neighbours- Marjorie and Alan, and Gma (Grandma). Oh, of course, I was there too (for obvious reasons).

When we were at the restaurant, I thought that I'd try something different to drink, so I did. I thought, let's see what all the fuss is about. Let's see why James Bond always has the same thing- shaken, not stirred, no less. So I ordered a James Bond with high expectations.

My verdict? Urgh! Don't even go there. Steer well clear and only drink it if your life is dependent on 007. A James Bond drink is seriously over-rated. I mean, I didn't even attract any smouldering stares from all the good looking extras and love interests that I thought I would, simply because I'd be giving out the Bond aura of chicness and sophistication that says 'I'm too cool for this establishment'. Did my drink provide me with that? No. After a while, I swapped it with Gma's Cointreau and lemonade (you'll be pleased to know, she didn't notice, but I think that's because she was on her way to being slightly sozzled. I know this because, Gma said 'oh b*gg*r' instead of 'oh blast' when she draped her sleeve in her soup and Gma NEVER swears...).

A bit later on in the evening, I had the obligatory sip of Mum's wine that I've been having for about 10 years now. I was really expecting that this would be my year; that this would be the year when finally, I could proclaim that I'd like a glass of wine with my meal. Sadly, it was not to be. Within the standard three seconds my face did the involuntary shudder that always follows the testing of wine. I can't tell you how much this disappointed me as I was hoping that by now, my taste buds would have matured. Oh well, until next year.

Luckily, I didn't receive any liquid (alcoholic) gifts. However, I did receive a fabulous pair of pants and socks from Mum and Dad. (More Mum really, because that would be weird otherwise. But you know, I love my birthday for the reason that I can always rely on Mum to ensure that my drawers and foot warmers are always replenished. Always. Year on year without fail). I got a few other bits and bobs... you know, perfume, money, hub caps, blanket, bag, jewellery, cards, etc. But nothing compares to the excitement and relief at the unveiling of the undies. Fabulous!

All in all, I had a lovely time for the simple reason that the day was simple. Of course it would've been nice to see my uni friends, but there's always next year- provided I send out the invites SOON. I just enjoyed being in good company and of course, the bonus game of Birthday Scrabble... Moving on!

In seriousness, I have learnt a few morals from my big day (and the one and a half days after) though:

• Do not be concerned that the quantity of presents depletes as you age. It doesn't have to be that way! If there are three pairs of socks and each is wrapped individually, do not despair, for that can result in six individual parcels.
• Skipping years can be done, provided that you do not inform too many people of your age. When your birthday does come around the following year, simply develop an allergy to birthday cake (or all cake if you want to cover all avenues) for one night only so that NO candles can be displayed to dispel the myth.

Until next time, I, 26 year old Mildred, bid you farewell.

Farewell.