Oh Bovver!

I'm living with Eliza Doolittle. I am Professor Higgins in reverse.

One night my little sweet natured dot went to bed, slept and woke the next day with a Cockney gene. Or Essex perhaps. Not water, wa-er. Not Peter, pe-er. Not later, la-er. Not a friggin T in sight. I don't know whether to laugh or cry. I'm sure the little blighter is only doing it for effect but apart from the occasional visit from family darn sarf, I've no idea where it's coming from. Certainly not me.

It's a pet hate of mine, poor enunciation and I'm exasperated. We started off ignoring her. Now we're correcting her but I'm in two minds as I think we're reinforcing the negative behaviour and should be rewarding the good? I'm sure she's doing it on purpose - the freedom of choice to say words one way or another.... I can see it in her eyes, the triumph that she knows she's getting one over on me and I suppose in the grandest scheme of things it could be something worse but my goodness, it riles me!

At breaking point yesterday I wanted to reach for the gaffer tape and stop the noise. I did threaten but she told me she wasn't bovvered by my threats. Wotever.

I'm hoping it's just a phase.

Azbo Aaron... Judging a cover by the book

Clearing out the spare bedroom of the hoards of clothes and toys that Grace has outgrown is a mammoth task reserved for days when I've ticked off everything else on the to-do list and it's the last thing standing. I hate it, with a passion but needs must and seeing as I've not been able to open the door fully for at least a month, the deed needed to be done. Armed with laptop, camera, caffeine and the promise of a stiff drink on completion, I dug myself in an evening of dire eBay listings.

Zoom forward a week, things have sold, the room is clearer. I have some money in my pocket and said stiff drink has long since been necked (thank you Uncle Frank for the Glayva you bought us!)

Do you ever wonder what your buyers are like? Who is taking on your clutter, to them a little gem? I regularly bid on eBay for hidden gems that I refuse to pay full price for, like Converse high tops for a toddler who'll probably only be in them two months at most. So I often wonder if the person selling wonders who is buying their junk, my little gem of a find?

Assume my interest then, when a bundle of Grace's toys sold for a tenner to someone going by the screen name of Azbo Aaron. Not ASBO, but cooler, more hip. Azbo.

Now I'm not one to judge on first impressions, sometimes not even second. That said I did rather feel I ought to batten down the hatches and warn the neighbours there might be a wrong'un effing and jeffing up the street with a can of White Lightening hanging off his arm. Then I told myself not to be such a bloody snob and that regardless of his ASBO, Aaron was someones son who at some time in his life got a rap on the wrist for pissing on the bus stop and swearing at the vicar.

I reminded myself I've known highly educated professionals, Old Etonians even, who've pissed behind the curtain at a rugby club reunion, who've run naked across the beach when someones pinched their underwear while they were swimming and whom probably had more colourful language than me and my cousin Christina on an Essex night out. None of which is particularly social to the average Joe.

So I park my assumptions and ride it out. As it turns out, Azbo Aaron sent his Mrs to pick up the haul so I'll never get to put my wonderings to bed. Probably just as well, I've had enough of pot kettle black for one day.

Talking of Essex

Pot kettle black. That's what my family are thinking.

I must confess there's not a lot wrong with Arg a.k.a. James Argent or TOWIE for that matter. Agreed, the photos of him in the recent release of NOW Magazine aren't the most flattering (catching his good side, his bad side and in the beach shot, his backside too) but I don't care much for picking on folk so I thought I'd pop back and set the page straight. He's ok. Like I said yesterday, not my cup of tea, but ok.

As for Essex, I shouldn't chortle too much. Southern bird that I am, spent the first 18 years of my life in the TOWIE stomping ground - I am after all Essex born and bred. That's half my life.

Now I feel old.

So yep, cards on the table... there's nowt wrong with Essex folk or anyone darn sarf for that matter. I still get the willies when I think about Grace dating someone like Arg though. Give me an Olly Murs any day. Fortunately I have another 18 years till I really need to worry about that one. Hopefully.

Anyway, just so Arg knows there's no hard feelings and the Essex crowd don't put a bounty on my head, here's a relic or two from the past (that in all likelihood should have stayed there). My friend Kim will hate me for this!

Essex.... 18 years ago...

Oh, and while I remember - an update on giving up swearing for lent. Going good here.

I did have one major setback when I spoke to my cousin Christina on the phone - also from Essex - and a potty mouth if ever I heard one. Chatting away as one does, I found myself slipping into the conversation, an F here, and F there simply to keep up with her. I had to get off the blower quick before there was any permanent damage to my lent committment. As her Husband pointed out later - you can take the girl out of Essex, but you can't take Essex out of the girl. Damn right!

Christina and me 2010