Lizzy, if I were to go into great detail of the 'slapstick' of my life....... But , however,
truth is stranger than fiction. My Husband Lee is a Local Authority Caretaker (live in) and if you want to know what the job entails I will let you in on the poem I wrote for the Tenants newsletter, I write and publish monthly.
I live in the twin towers
In a place called ******** Hill
With ASBO's and Police raids
It's like something off The Bill
I cant go out in the evenings
'cause the crime rate is too high
And i'm scared of falling objects
Being hurled out of the sky
It's just the same in daylight
Come to think of that
I've even seen the Caretaker
Who wears a builders hat
The grafitti on the paintwork
Isn't educational
There are words I've never heard of
Shame the bug**rs cannot spell!
We could have a pretty garden
With a bench and flower beds
But the kids would only smash it up
Or the alkies and smackheads
And it used to be a nice place
Where our kids could safely play
Do you want to live in ******** Hill
No thanks! No b****y way!
(Edited to protect the identity of the innocent!)
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The ensuing crisis on Lee trying to finish on time to get ready at a leisurely pace meant that sans guitar, sans birthday cake (and what would have been even worse if the traffic fiasco had worsened - without Diane's phone number), we ran to the car and were 50 miles away before we realised, (also picture my earlier missive - one very irate male driver, pumped up on chewy soft mints and testosterone

) I decided not to ask him to turn back and pick up the aforementioned objects
