By jove, I've done it: I've only gone and become a fully fledged adult this morning!

Friends,

On a day like any other with no particularly redeeming features, I had an astonishing realisation. I realised that I have indeed become a fully fledged adult today. Technically- age wise, you might argue that I was already there (which would be rather tricky to argue with as I am in my mid-twenties).

However, I have never really considered myself a 'proper' grown-up... until today that is. For a while now, I have felt as though I am floundering between young-adulthood and official adulthood- as if I don't really have a place in either. For want of a better phrase, you might say I have been in 'no man's land'. And if you did say that, I think I would have to agree with you. 

Anyway, I had my moment of realisation in a place I seldom visit, whilst partaking in an activity I seldom do. That's right; I was having my hair dressed. (Why they call the hair salon a hair dressers is something I had previously never stopped to question... until today. But I didn't question it out loud- only in my head. But really, dressing your hair? A most peculiar phrase).

I feel I should explain, as I believe that there are two camps of women when it comes to hair dressing experiences. There are those that savour every moment of it as they chat with their regular stylist, whilst enjoying a nice cup of tea (due to being regular clients). And then there are those that don't particularly enjoy staring at themselves in the mirror for the duration of the cutting, whilst you talk to a stranger wielding a pair of scissors.

I, fall into the second camp.

Usually, my normal hair dressing experience consists of the following:

• avoiding making an appointment until strictly necessary.
• planning in advance a new drastic haircut, and then doing nothing about it, apart from maybe having two inches cut off instead of just the one.
• sitting uncomfortably in my seat as I make chit-chat with my reflection and the hair dresser.
• moments of awkward silence between topics of conversation.
• and of course, the obligatory 'yes, I can see the difference' bit at the end of the event when they show you the back of your head in the mirror. Normally I can't really see the difference as I don't study the back of my head enough to know if a substantial difference has in fact resulted.

Today, however, was different.

I arrived at my 9:30 appointment ten minutes early. Instead of having to sit down on a really low sofa, I was ushered straight into one of the salon chairs and wrapped in the customary cape. At this point, I usually start to feel uncomfortable as I have to watch my floating head make expressions I don't even realise I make, but that discomfort never arrived. This did surprise me because nobody looks flattering in those wraps, or when under the harsh lighting. But today, I thought I didn't look too bad, (even when under the lights that usually leave me looking like I departed this planet many years ago).

I managed to deflect the subject of conversation from me and onto a load of hairdressing stuff that I was reading on a sign in front of me. As a consequence, my trip to the hair dressers became an educational experience. I learnt about things like hair extensions, creating volume and  foils- all stuff I'm sure will come in useful (one day).

The best thing about this appointment, was that I was in and out in no time at all. There was no dilly-dallying. Just quick scissor snipping and that's all folks (!): my kind of session.

As I was walking back to the car (after paying, of course), I realised I had become a grown-up. Gone was my younger-person awkwardness that usually accompanied a hair dressing venture. And gone was that peculiar sensation that you get when you talk to your reflection. Until those things had passed, I don't think I was ever going to be able to join the ranks of real adults the world over. So all in all, not bad at all.

Although, I do think- with hindsight, that the eradication of these awkwardnesses may have had something to do with the hairdresser being a fellow named Freddie. I must thank him for properly- and at long last, inducting me into the world of adulthood. It was my first experience of having my hair dressed by a man, but it was an experience that exceeded my expectations as Freddie coiffed my barnet to perfection.

Mum- Dad- if you're reading this, you'll be pleased to read that I have finally become a fully fledged adult. It has been a long time on the horizon I know, but I was just waiting for a pivotal life event to make me realise. I mean, I know I'm debuting my life story  in a short time in Scotland (which does happen to be a real job ******- you know who you are), but now I feel ready. And I'll tell you why I feel ready.

The girl staring back at me in the mirror was me. For the first time, I realised that I didn't want to change a single thing about me- nothing.

And that was when I knew I had become an adult: when I accepted I was who I am.

So, with that I draw this entry to a close. I write, wearing a smile of contentment, happy with the knowledge that I have finally transitioned through an invisible barrier, out of no man's land and into a life I am very happy and excited to lead.

From a now real grown-up,

Mildred

My body has waged war on me when I need it most

As I write to you on an otherwise dreary British July day, I can't help but feel disappointed in myself. Why, when I most need my body to co-operate and be on top-notch form, has it decided to launch a full-blown attack on me?

As you know, I'm shorty off to debut to the world my life story- which, by the way, has suddenly become interesting. I recently applied for a job- World Minister, which- for those of you who aren't sure what that is, is basically Prime Minister of the world. Yep, it's a big under-taking I know, but I thought hey-ho, what's the worst that could happen? So I decided to apply. I mean, I'm not really politically orientated, but maybe that will work in my favour. After all, variety- as they say (whoever 'they' is), is the spice of life. I, am simply providing the bit of cinnamon that is needed to make this job interesting. Anyway, the results of this job apparently coincide with my time in Edinburgh, which is when the first World Minister will be unveiled to the world. You never know, it could be me...

I'm sorry- I do digress (as you probably know by now).

I was going to tell you that I have developed a sore throat and am in the primary stages of a cold. Unbelievable! I never get ill (touch wood), and now, when I need my body most does it decide to turn against me? I mean, I treat it well, but perhaps that's no longer enough. I just don't understand why- when my body has the option of rebelling against me for 365 days in a year, it opts to do it now, at a crucial moment. It's like, it's been dormant for months on end and suddenly gone- 'aha, let's make life interesting for Mildred- keep her on her toes.' Well thank you body, but you should be prepared, for I am armed and ready to fight back with the most sophisticated weaponry known to man- medicine.

That's right. I'm taking action. In my artillery I have:

• assorted throat sweets (all as unpleasant as each other).
• vapour rub (to steam 'it' out of my system).
• hot berry drinks (not the lemon ones- eww, gross).
• throat spray (tastes vile, but blissfully numbs the offender).
• two different cough syrups- the first, mentholated; the second, honey and lemon.
• multivitamins (because you can never be too sure).
• a pot of honey and a lemon (there were two lemons, but one ceased to be yellow, so we parted ways).
• various cold/flu tablets for the daytime and night (to ensure that battle can commence for 24 hours, not just in my waking moments).
• nasal spray- I'm new to this product. Delivers an unusual sensation, but I guess that means it's doing it's job.
• my hands- the operatives and administrators that allow this operation to run smoothly. 

Let battle be won through mentholated madness, soup, hot honey and lemon  and regular nasal dousing. I will not succumb to the battlefield, nor will I succumb to snoozing drowsily in bed with a hot water bottle. I will fight this cold valiantly until the end. But first, I think I might indulge in a nice hot bubbly bath.

And then, I launch my first wave of attack via the nasal passage, the teeth cave and some uncomfortable inhalations. This plan I confide to you in utmost secrecy. We can only hope it doesn't end up in enemy territory, lest they launch a counter attack.

As of 12 hundred hours today, Mildred v MB (Mildred's Body) has begun.

May the best Mildred win.

Gee, no one ever says how tricky writing your life story is... (except me, because I'm saying it now).

Hello there friends!

Apologies for my detainment. I have been- as you know, attempting to write my life story. Unfortunately, my attempts are not going well.

So, I've made a tactical evaluation and decided that a change of course is in order. No longer will 'The Life of Mildred, as lived by Mildred, as told by Mildred' be published in book form. No longer will 'The Life of Mildred, as lived by Mildred, as told by Mildred' be published in downloadable form. No longer will 'The Life of Mildred, as lived by Mildred, as told by Mildred' be published at all.

No no. It was too tricky and too time consuming, having to scavenge in the depths of my memory banks for something worth writing down. Plus, it was exhausting. So I've decided to switch to another avenue, for I will not let my time spent self-analysing have been time spent in vain. Nope, not at all. Because friends, I wanted you to be the first to know my new news.

I am writing a play instead! It's based on my life and will star... me, as Mildred, the main character. Well, she's actually the only character, so it should be rather interesting. My friend Sophie- (the florist), is helping me to co-direct, which is fun. Though at times, it is slightly demoralising, having to relive the same experiences over and over again.

I mean, take what happened to me a few weeks ago. (I didn't tell you about it, because I was a little bit embarrassed, but now that I'm going to be broadcasting it to the world, I may as well tell you). Basically, I got fired from a little job that my brother Scott found for me. If truth be told, I wasn't particularly bothered about losing that job- I didn't like the boss, I didn't like the staff, I didn't like the restaurant and I most definitely didn't like the food. Doesn't take much to realise why I was fired does it?

My first job was as a waitress when I was 13. Twelve years on and I'm back where I started. I suppose, my morale was at an all time low. What with turning up at the wrong garden centre for that notoriously disastrous interview, and now this... I'm rapidly realising that despite my degrees, I am becoming unemployable.

Did I tell you why I was fired?

No, I don't think I did.

Here in lies the problem. I was fired for being too honest.

Again.

You see, it's not the first time. But the problem is, I'm just not prepared to lie (even if I am being paid to do so). And this problem is further exacerbated by having a conscience that I can't control, which means I find it almost impossible to lie (almost, but not quite).

Anyway, that's my news- I am Mildred McManus the playwright.

Having made this decision, I thought: 'let's spice things up a little', so I'm going to debut my life story at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in August. Crazy, or what?!

Farewell my friend

Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to say goodbye to a loyal and devoted friend: the Poop Mobile.

*

That's right friends, my trusty stead is no more. 

Early one evening last week, the Poopster and I were driving home when a woman driving very fast hit us. Luckily, we were driving slowly, so I wasn't injured. Though I was taken to hospital as a precaution in the back of an ambulance. Lying down whilst being driven is an exceedingly strange sensation- one (I must add), I hope never to repeat again. 

After being given the all clear, I sought news on my constant companion. I found my Dad. He'd been talking with the policeman and was wearing an expression that was very grave indeed.

He told me to sit down. So I did. And then he proceeded to tell me that my little dalmation-ified car was no more. 

Dad was right to ensure that I was seated before delivering this sad news. Silently I looked to him as his eyes met my gaze. And then I spoke in a voice that didn't sound like my own.

'When can I see them?' (The Poop Mobile was like a fish- neither a him nor a her, so they became a 'them', in case you were wondering).

'Tomorrow love, tomorrow,' he replied.

I nodded. 'Okay.'

And with that, we left the hospital. 

*

As a tribute to my wonderful Poop Mobile, I would here like to take a moment to reflect on all the good times we shared as it ocurred to me earlier today: many of our good times have featured in this blog.

• My very first blog entry was about my little Poop Mobile as the exhaust had fallen off. It was the first time our relationship was tested and I wrote to you when they were being patched up in the hospital for cars garage.
• I pay tribute to my car for enduring and surviving ALL THE POT HOLES.
• Though my car may often have been splattered in offerings, when it was clean and dandy, it was a car for any outfit.
• My little car had a wheel transplant during it's time in my care.
• When I first bought the Poopster, I pimped it. I bought a pink air freshner and stuck it in the vent. That was as outrageous as the pimping got.
• I received some fabulous Halford's finest hub-caps for my birthday. To the Poop Mobile, that must have been like wearing a new pair of Manolo Blahnik's.
• Whilst driving along one evening, the car and I were attacked by the cannon-balling bee that flew in through the open window and had to be removed with my shoe.
• It was in my little white Fiesta that I first experienced car-o-feriority when parked next to that gleaming Aston Martin. I'll never forget that feeling; the moment I deduced my car was worth two Aston Martin tyres... I'll never forget the feeling later in the evening when I returned to my car to see that some birds had deposited on the shiny Aston bonnet. It was a feeling of contentment, knowing that to a bird, a car was just another surface: our feathered friends didn't care about the price. That was the moment when I felt most loyal to my car; the moment I realised I was very happy driving my Poop Mobile.

I will miss you.

Thank you for the good times. Though our time was short, it was exceedingly good fun.

There'll never be a first car like you.

*

Thank you for being here to say goodbye to the Poop Mobile. May they rest in peace.

Life with a coach-load of old folk (and me)

Hello dears.
No... that's not right.

Hello there folk!
Nope... that's not right either.

Oh dear. What's happening to me? I appear to have forgotten the much taken for granted art of the standardised greeting. It must be the concussion I incurred when a book fell on my head (from a great height) this week . That's the only solution I can deduce.

You see, since Monday last week, I have being in the company of people much older than I'd usually dilly-dally with. In case you don't know (or haven't yet guessed what I'm talking about), I've been on "holiday" (in inverted comma's). This week I accompanied Gma (aka Grandma) on a coach trip, so you now see how the inverted comma's come into place.

Now, I don't know if you know, but the dictionary defines "holiday" as:

• a time when one is exempt from the requirement of duty and assessment*.

Well, this is totally debatable. I for one was most certainly not exempt from duty, but Gma and her pals were. To further deduce whether I was actually on holiday, I have posed myself a question:

• Was I relaxed?

Yes, I answer without hesitation, but really I mean no. Maybe I was at times relaxed, maybe I wasn't. You see it's hard to relax in a dining hall filled with 300 plus OAP's. As lovely as they are, you can't help but always find yourself on the lookout for an accident that may or may not occur, which therefore makes it impossible to relax. Plus, as the token "young" person, I had to fulfil various unspoken deeds, otherwise the mature folk would cast all kinds of aspersions upon the youth of the nation.

So, with that knowledge in mind, I cast the role of defender of youth-kind upon my shoulders. Nobody asked me, but I felt it was my moral duty; that in the absence of kindred youth-spirits, it was my responsibility to defend the honour of those aged under 30. Don't worry, there's no need to thank me! It wasn't actually possible for me to commit myself to the job 100%, as it wasn't possible for me to defend (what I have recently come to describe as), the undefendables.

Please note: Undefendables are known as such for the simple fact that their actions cannot be defended. Undefendables are the select few that besmirch and tarnish the the tag of youth. (I believe, friends, that you are aware of whom I refer to and require no further explanation...).

Naturally, I felt it essential- in the absence of other under 30's to defend the defendables to ensure that the definition of youth had the following left to it's name:

1. some credibility
2. some meaning
3. some, er, some... something else at least... not sure what...

Understandably, having assigned myself as a valiant knight who has drank from the fountain of youth, I was always on guard. So really, in response to the previous question I posed (could I relax?), the short answer is no, not really. It's exhausting being a protector of human-kind. Trust me.

Now we have ascertained that I was not nearly as relaxed as I'd have liked to be, I posed myself another question:

• Was I tired? 

I answer you with a resounding no, but you know as well as I do that I'm fibbing. Yes, of course I was tired. Who wouldn't be? I was sharing a bedroom with Gma which, by day was delightful, but by night? Well... a different story entirely.

As much as I love my Gma- flaws and all, I don't think my love can stretch to include nightly snoring. Nope, I've thought about it some more: it definitely isn't that elastic. Over the course of the week I swam 2 miles in the hope that I'd exhaust myself into sleeping that night. It was a great theory (if I don't say so myself), but didn't come off in reality.

That was a shame, a real shame. So on top of physical exhaustion, I then added what I have come to term: "total sensory deprivation". It's no where near as scary as it sounds- it's basically an eye mask and ear plugs... but I quickly learnt that ear plugs might plug your ears, but they don't block the sound. They merely muffle it. This meant that I was back to square one.

As Gma is obviously my grandmother, it would've been wrong to poke her with a poking device (whatever was to hand, be it a finger, a foot, a pen, the lamp, a book etc). So I had to make do with imaginary poking, but I have to say, imaginary poking is nowhere near as satisfying as real pokeage because the silence does not follow.

Anyway, you'll be pleased to know that I did manage to get some sleep. Eventually. And last night, upon returning home, I had new found respect and admiration for my trusty, faithful and loyal stead: my single bed.

So, having established that I was neither relaxed nor rested, I have posed myself one final question in my post-"holiday"-analysis:

• What can I conclude?

Well, I can conclude that despite the long bouts of sitting and multiple cups of tea scheduled into the day, I have a secret that I have been harbouring since my return. But first, you must promise me you won't tell a soul. You promise? Good. Right, well the thing is, I... I erm... I secretly enjoyed our excursions out, especially the jaunt on the steam train. It took me back to my childhood, which was lovely. But more than anything, I loved the fact that I felt as though I were aboard the train to enter JK Rowling's Hogwarts (you'll understand my disappointment that the engine wasn't a scarlet one, but was in fact bottle green). But even so, I loved it just the same.

I am particuarly proud of my self-proclaimed rebellious streak. Whilst on board the steam train, you're never going to believe what I did! It was so totally rebellious, because I, Mildred McManus am a fully fledged rebel (well, for today at least). You're not going to believe this, but when the steam train was chugging along, I stuck my head out of the window (after sensibly tying my hair back). Now, I know that might not sound that rebellious, but trust me it was! Because right above me was a sign that read 'Under no circumstances are you allowed to poke your head out of the window' (or something like that. I'm not sure if the word poke was used, but you get the gist of it). So you see why I'm something of a rebel now? Cool eh?!

Anyway, I'm going to go to bed now and appreciate the silence and the solitude. Gma- if you're reading this, thanks a million for the trip. To the rest of you, good night and thank you for reading this.

From a very sleepy Mildred

P.S. Sorry I couldn't write to you sooner! The hotel was a computer free zone and therefore incompatible with life for the YAC's (Young Aged Citizens). 

*Sourced from dictionary.com

Yesterday, I had my first experience of car-o-feriority

Hello Friends, and welcome to the glorious month of June. Well, it may be glorious for you, but it most certainly wasn't for me as the promising start to the month that I'd been hoping for never materialised. Instead, I suffered from my first bout of car-o-feriority.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the term, let me take a moment to familiarise you. Car-o-feriority is when you are sat in your automobile- in my case a white poop splattered Ford Fiesta, and then you park next to another car. But it's not just any car. Oh no. Car-o-feriority only happens when you realise that your little baby is decidedly mediocre. This fact becomes blindingly obvious the longer you sit next to perfection, ie, a car that you can only ever dream of owning and is usually ever only seen on Top Gear. Car-o-feriority is more commonly a male affliction (I have noted at least) and affects my poor father usually on a bi-monthly basis. It is yet, however, to affect my mother- she is very happy cruising along in old faithful- a Honda Civic.

Anyway, there I was sat in a car park, minding my own business (as you do) when I was suddenly struck down by a most peculiar sensation. I began to feel e-feminated (if this isn't a real word I apologise, but given that I'm of the fairer gender, it is impossible for me to be emasculated. Note: I have not put a double 'f' in the term e-feminate, as if I did it would become effeminate, which means to display womanly characteristics, which obviously, I do).

Never before had I suffered with e-femination, which rapidly became car-o-feriority as I began the mental comparison between my 12 year old battered and bruised old friend and this brand new pillar box red three door Aston Martin. Comprehension dawned on me as I thought about my pimping of my car and compared it to the Aston. Do I have alloys? No, but I have the finest Halfords hubcaps money can buy. Did the A.M. have alloys? Yes, in black. Evidently, this car was too cool for school. Do I have a leather interior? No. Did the A.M? Why, it most certainly did. Do I even have a CD player? Nope. Need I ask the question relating to the A.M? I think you know the answer: it had three.

Barely able to prise myself out of the car due to severe levels of car-o-feriority, I did the one thing that any young woman not in a relationship would have done: I phoned my Dad. He did not offer the comforting words I needed to hear. Instead, he welcomed me to the club and informed me that the entire value of my car was worth just two A.M. tyres at the most. To add insult to injury, he then asked me to take a picture so he could see the beast. Thank you dear father, thank you.

Now, I know you must be wondering: at any point did I feel superior in my speckled white Fiesta? The answer you are looking for would be no. I tried to do that logic thing that my Dad taught me where you work out the expenditure on top of the sum of the car, but it didn't perk me up. Yes, I might have cheaper insurance. And yes, I might have a lesser expenditure. But ultimately, I had a Ford Fiesta. These arguments became inconsequential as I began to question my loyalty to my pooped-up motor. What was happening to me, I wondered? For I had always been happy with my little car, until I experienced the phenomenon of car-o-feriority. All I can say, is that it must be exhausting being a man. I mean, this affliction strikes my Dad down at least a dozen times a year! How he manages to pick himself up is beyond me.

Oh well. Life must go on.

Yes, indeed it must. When I remembered that, I felt heartened. I can aspire to the dizzying heights of Aston Martin ownership and one day, maybe one day, succeed. And then I realised, I'm happy to wait twenty years for one. After all, my Dad's been waiting that long (and some), so he's due his any day now. For now, I'm happy to admire from a distance and wistfully hope that one day my hard work might pay off.

With that realisation, I was at one with myself and my ever loyal car once more.

All was well.

Especially when I returned to my car later that evening and felt a certain sense of smugness. Next to my poop smattered Fiesta was a poop splattered Aston. For once, I felt grateful for a little black and white speckling on the bonnet and would have gladly accepted a little more on mine, feeling blessed that a bird would share itself with both the Prince and Pauper of the car world.

A series of thank you's and apologies

Hello all! I'm not sure why I've greeted you with an exclamation, given that this blog is something of a confessional...


As you know, I have recently started to write my life-story, which is becoming surprisingly interesting the further back I reminisce. Until a couple of days ago, I had thought that my life was well, rather mediocre. Not today though, not today. I now think it's bordering on being slightly interesting.

Now, not that you need to know this, but having recently made the ground-breaking discovery that I can write in purple, I'm taking full advantage and doing so- as you can see. Ah, such small things that make life all the sweeter! 

But in seriousness, I realised that over the years, I may not have been entirely truthful with all my nearest and dearest. So, I would like to here offer a series of thank you's and apologies to those people who have helped make my life what it is.

• THANK YOU to Agent Grandma for selling my name to loads of other oldies who probably aren't in the least bit interested in what your granddaughter is up to and who probably have even lesser amounts of interest in reading my as yet unpublished (and rather unfinished) autobiography. Nevertheless, thanks for promoting me for free- I owe you one Gma! (Sorry I mentioned your fee- please, don't put your rates up now... I'll give you a signed free copy of my yet to reach completion novel. How's that for a deal?!). 
• THANK YOU to my good friend Sophie for being a person to aspire to- your levels of coolness far surpass my own.
• THANK YOU to Auntie Beatrice for reading my previously poor attempts at novel writing and not minding that I've (metaphorically) left you hanging on quite an important cliffhanger for quite some time now... I'm sorry, I've got major writer's block. I know it was an epic love story, but I don't know what happens when one half of the couple's been vapourised and the other frozen. Can a relationship between the two really continue? I knew I should have stuck to what I knew and not branched out into the world of sci-fi... So really, I'd also like to apologise to you Auntie Bea, given that this book is never going to end and you will forever be on a cliffhanger (metaphorically not literally). Sorry.
• THANK YOU to Pam for listening to me ramble on about goodness only knows what when you really should have been writing your essays when we were at uni. Ahh, friends. 
• THANK YOU to Dawn French and Jennifer Saunders for being an inspiration during my days at uni. You don't know me, but one day you will, so I shall look forward to our imminent meeting. 
• THANK YOU to Mr Walt Disney for your fantastic films over the years. No further explanation required.

 Now, onto all my sorries. Unsurprisingly, this list is somewhat larger...

• SORRY to all the people I have ever fallen onto when a bus has lurched around a corner in my pre-car days... 
• SORRY to any poor souls who have had to experience my cooking...
• SORRY for the time that I crashed the car into that rock Mum... I was doing the old emergency brake routine and well, that happened to be in the way... but at least it stopped the car. Plus, I was a learner, so what can you expect? (That's my story and I'm sticking by it, because I actually was a learner when said incident occurred).  
• SORRY about accidentally smoking out the lounge Dad, when you and Mum were on holiday. It was very cold and I was attempting to be a proper girl scout... unsuccessfully. I am evidently a bad work-person, because I am blaming my tools: the fire grate wouldn't do what was required of it. (Either that, or I'm a rubbish fire-lighting person, which is probably closer to the truth).
• SORRY to all the Newsagents who I have given false hope to over the years. No, I won't be buying the magazines. Yes, I will be reading them in your shop for free. Thanks!
• SORRY for all the times that I have inappropriately had the giggles and landed any of my friends in hot water- you know who you are. 
• SORRY to Mum for scaring you when I was learning to drive. 
• SORRY to all the people at Edinburgh airport on the day I arrived a couple of New Years ago, when at the top of my voice I shouted down the phone 'I'M IN SCOTLAND!', at the exact moment I went around a corner and into a silent departures lounge. 
• SORRY for all the spiders that you've thought I've removed from various locations for you Scott. Sometimes they went into my hand and out the window, other times they didn't. Of course, on those occasions I'd always say that the spider was long gone when in reality, it was probably hovering pretty close to your bed/ close to you... Sorry, really I am!
• Sorry for broadcasting your fear of spiders to everyone Scott. I promise not to reveal anymore secrets that might make you ever so slightly less cooler than you are. 
• Sorry to the Chancellor at my university graduation ceremony. I didn't mean to tread on your toe- it was nerves. Plus you  had exceedingly large feet.

So, having made peace with the world and the people I know, I can sleep easy for this evening at least. I hope that any of my past indiscretions can be overlooked and forgiven by the respective people. For now though, I bade you farewell and wish you a pleasant weekend.


Mildred