Rosey, a fairy and a bee

Rosey was sitting on her balcony with a bottle of Chardonnay and her beautiful sea view for company. Nothing unusual there I hear you say. The next thing I tell you however, you’ll either believe or not. Me? I’m sitting on the fence! Actually, it wasn’t me perched on the scarcement, but a fairy. The little sylph looked somewhat upset so Rosey asked her what was wrong, and the fairy beckoned her over then whispered in her ear. She said there was nasty little boy down below in the street and he’d very been rude to her. Rosey recognised the little smatchet straight away. He was a trouble-maker from her class at school. Rosey often sends him to the naughty corner.

The next thing you need to believe is that Rosey has a tame bee that often sits with her! Ok, I know, but bear with me. She sent the bee down to chase the wretched boy away and he ran off flapping his hands. The fairy kissed Rosey on the cheek then  flew away.

Rosey assured me that she hadn't imagined it because the lad arrived at school the next day with a swollen red nose. He told her he'd been stung by a bee. 

Rosy, a letterbox and a handsome fireman

I hadn't seen my friend Rosey for a couple of months,  then I bumped into her in town the other day. Literally! Well, almost; actually she bumped into me. She was walking with a limp and I asked her why. She said she'd hurt her wrist (I know what you are thinking - don't ask, I didn't!) She showed me a nasty scar.

It seems that she posted a letter the other day, then realised she'd left the stamp off the envelope, and so she pushed her hand through the slot to try and retrieve it. Not only did she fail in her attempt, but her hand refused to exit the orifice and stuck tight. Needless to say, her predicament attracted a few curious glances from passers-by, one of whom offered to call the post office for assistance. A postman duly turned up and after opening the flap or door whatever it's called, attempted to break Rosey free to no avail. He was a bit grumpy so Rosey put on her best dampened-spirits look hoping to gain a bit more sympathy. At that moment, a passing police car screeched to a halt and PC Plod came across to see what was going on. He warned her that she could be 'arrested for attempted theft from a Royal Mail postbox'. Rosey adopted her well practiced plaintive pout and forced a small tear down her cheek. It worked and he let her off with a caution. Moments later a fire engine arrived. Suddenly her predicament turned from difficult to interesting as a handsome fireman had a go at freeing her hand by grasping twisting and shoving it - or softly caressing it in Rosey’s version of events! Guess what happened next. Yes, an ambulance appeared. To cut what is becoming a long story short, between all three emergency services they eventually managed to cut her free, destroying the letter box in the process. 

By the way, they found her letter. She had in fact attached a stamp all alon

Rosey had him in stitches!

My friend Rosey was rushing to the railway station yesterday when she somehow snagged her flowing cotton skirt on a rose bush and ripped it. Once seated on the train she delved into her voluminous bag and produced a needle and thread. (Rosey has every conceivable misadventure catered for within that bag from a broken finger nail to a punctured tyre!) Just as she started sewing a very fanciable young man plonked himself down in the next seat. Apparently, they got on very well indeed. As we all know Rosey has a habit of becoming attached to beaus on a regular basis, so what happened next came as no surprise to me. The train arrived at its destination and they stood to leave, only to discover that they were indeed attached - literally. Somehow, Rosey had sewn her skirt to his jacket.
Of course, she claims it was accidental, but as we all know she can be a cunning vixen, so I for one am not so sure.

Rosey's cups

My friend Rosey hates it when ‘common people’ refer to a cup of tea as a 'cuppa rosey lea’. She says they are taking her name in vain.  When I pointed out that rosey lea is cockney rhyming slang for tea and therefore perfectly acceptable, she just shrugged!

She once referred to crossing the road as cupping. When I asked why, she grinned and said ‘because I runneth over!' Pretending I didn't get her joke I pointed out that the term ‘my cup runneth over is a quotation from Psalm 23:5  in the Bible and means 'I have more than enough for my needs thank you very much!  She...shrugged!

Which reminds me, she needed a new broom handle the other day (how she broke the old one, I decided not to query) She went to the hardware shop in town and bought a white one. It was a sunny day so she was wearing her sunglasses. On her way home, every time she went to cup – sorry, cross the road, the traffic stopped for her. Someone even offered to help her across to the other side. It took her a while to realise why! Bless her! 

Confession time! When was making Rosey a 'cuppa rosey lea' one afternoon, I asked what cup size she was, meaning does she usually have it it in a large cup or one of those little fancy bone china ones. Whoopsie! It must be catching!

Rosey stayed the night

Typical isn’t it? Supper finished, and time to slump in my cosiest chair and watch telly with just my bottle of malt for company. Best of all, The Terminator had just started. I love that film.

Ring-ring. Doorbell. I considered pretending I was out, but then thought I might just have won on the lottery and there was someone outside with a cheque for a few million.

But no. Instead, I discovered my friend Rosey. She had locked herself out of her flat and needed the spare set of keys I look after for her. I went to get them and when I returned to the door she wasn’t there. Instead I found her plonked in my special chair watching the pirated copy of Alice Through the Looking Glass she strangely gave me for my birthday!  (Some ladies aspire to be like Kim Kardashian. Rosey? Alice!)

‘Couldn’t spare a thimble of chardonnay I suppose?’ she asked with that innocent little-girl-lost expression she does so well.

Needless to say, one drink became a bottle and then the start of a second. Clearly she was going nowhere so I reluctantly suggested she stay overnight. She lit up at the offer and immediately asked me where I would be sleeping! I told her in no uncertain terms that I was to be in my bed and she would have to make do with my inflatable camp bed.

That was last night, and when I got up this morning Rosey had mercifully gone. I ran a bath and when I got in the water was cold. Rosey! I thought I’d console myself by eating the beautiful croissants I brought back from France the other day. Gone. I got the coffee jar from the cupboard. I nearly emptied it yesterday, but I saved enough for one cup. Bloody empty! To add insult to injury I tripped on an empty wine bottle.

Why do I like her? God only knows! 

Rosey makes a mess!

The movie wasn’t that scary. As horror flicks go, it was quite lightweight. Trouble is, my friend Rosey can’t really handle anything more disturbing than Bambi so I guess I only have myself to blame for the mess. There's the sticky popcorn she flung all over my cream carpet when she jumped and the mouthful of red wine she sprayed across my glass coffee table when she screamed. Add to that, the river of brown currently making its way down my white wall. My fault again I suppose for leaving a pot of chocolate mousse on the floor. She was suffering having just seen a giant speaking spider on the screen so I paused the film and told her to sit by an open window and vent for a few seconds. On the way she trod on the corner of the tray propelling the mousse skyward.

She drives me mad, but that’s a small price to pay for having such an amusing and entertaining friend. (I thought I’d better say that in case she reads this and gets cross with me for telling you about it!)

Rosey is such a cheat

‘You shall reap as you sow’ I said to my friend Rosey.

‘I what?' she asked ‘How can I reap the rip I’m repairing in my shirt?’

‘Not sew as in needle and cotton silly, sow as...’

Her sudden fit of giggles told me she was attempting a joke. You’d think I’d know when she’s joking by now wouldn't you? But as her one-liners are often a bit feeble I’m never quite sure and I have to tread carefully. Truth is, I once thought she was joking when she said something about a friend dying, only to discover he'd been run down by the number 126 bus.

The reason I’m telling you this is because we were playing cards at her flat and Rosey cheated. A pretty feeble cheat I have to say but cheat it was. I won’t bore you with the details but basically, she kept disguising two cards as a single one and also attempting to peep inside the envelope which held a mystery card along with the sought-after winner’s prize, a Terry's All Gold Chocolate. (What an exciting life you lead I hear you say!)

Anyway, it was all academic because just at that moment a  siren went off in the street scaring Fuzzeybutt (pussycat 1) who stopped preening herself and leapt onto the table scattering the cards all over Scruff (pussycat 2) who climbed to her feet and fled the scene.

I wonder where the chocolate went? My lips are sealed!



Rosey is writing an erotic novel

A few of us met at the Bicycle Arms the other night at my friend Rosey’s behest. She said she wanted to discuss an idea with us. That was it; no advance warning of what was to come.

There we, were, five of us seated around a table in eager anticipation. In sashayed Rosey. But this was a different Rosey from the one we know and love. This version of Rosey was adorned in a bright red satin dress and wearing heavy makeup (she doesn't normally wear any) featuring the brightest red lips I think I’ve ever seen. In one hand she held an A4 writing pad and in the other beautiful red rose. She sat herself down and plonked the rose in my pint of beer! What the heck was going on?

She then turned  towards the bar and clicked her fingers. At least she tried to, but didn't manage to produce any sound and gave up after a few attempts and yelled “Oy” instead!

Barman Brian came trotting across to us carrying a bottle of champagne (which turned out to be cheap Cava) and six of those old fashioned champagne glasses; you know the ones, they were said to have been modeled on the breast of Marie Antoinette. Rosey said they best suited the subject we were about to discuss. We couldn't imagine what was coming next.

 Well, it turns out that she’s just finished reading 50 Shades of Grey and it’s made her think about starting to write again. She reckons she can produce a rival tome called 50 Sirens in Scarlet. No doubt E.L.James is quaking in her boots! She brought with her a chapter and asked us say what we thought of it. Oh dear!

 She swallowed a whole glass of bubbly in one gulp, then after coughing, spluttering and wiping her crimson clad bosoms with a napkin, her reading began.  It went something like this.

“The moon cast a beam of gold through the branches of the ancient  oak  and......”

“No clouds that night then” Rob said.

“Shut up Rob and listen. As I was saying -  all around us our garments were strewn like so many autumn leaves”  
“Blimey Rosey, had he even taken his socks off?” chortled Simon.

Rosey stared and having been silently admonished Simon slipped down in his chair. After a theatrical silence she was off again.

“I was overcome with desire and as he looked into my eyes I saw him shiver with .....”

“With what Rosey, the cold? Perhaps he should have kept his socks on!” said Rob. If looks could kill he’d have been a corpse.

“With longing Rob, with longing, now SHUT UP!” Silence and serious faces all round.

Then still looking towards him she started again.

“I didn’t expect it to wilt" she said.

I noticed Heather blushing and looking at the floor as if wishing it would open up.

“Rosey, you can’t say that in polite company! It’s too rude” I said.

"Why not?” said Rosey. “It has, look, my red rose has wilted. Your rotten beer has killed it”.

After a quick discussion it was decided she should email those of that were still interested with the rest of the chapter. We gave up on the Cava.  Rosey bought me a new beer and herself a glass of Chardonnay, and for the rest of the evening it was business as usual.

Rosey tries to bake a cake

I popped around to my friend Rosey’s flat the other evening. From inside I could hear the sound of a man, a very loud man. I was a little concerned so I tried the door and as it was unlocked I cautiously crept in.

I found her in the kitchen with a laptop on the shelf displaying  at full volume an enthusiastic celebrity chef explaining how to make a cake.

I shouted ‘Rosey!' 

She jumped out of her skin, spun round and sent a bowl of something beige and sludgy flying onto to the floor. It was messy already, but now it looked like a disaster zone! 

'I was making a cake before you barged in' she screamed.

She slammed the lid down on the computer, faced me with slimy hands on hips and gave me an really angry stare. Before any words were spoken her expression changed from fury to bemusement, then despondency to sorrow. Rosey was clearly very upset.

It seemed she wanted to make a cake for Mothering Sunday but had decided to alter ingredient quantities thus increasing the size of the finished article. Unfortunately it looked like  her calculations were a bit out, and it had gone completely wrong causing her to become increasingly frustrated.

Hoping to lighten the atmosphere I jokingly  reminded her about her last attempt at baking when she built a multi-layered millefeuille and it ended up looking like a leaning tower of pizzas! They were not the words of support she needed. So I put my arm around her sticky shoulders, told her to leave the mess for the time being and to sit down on the sofa with me and a calming cuppa’.

She told me that all her friends could cook and she was really envious of the way seem to knock ‘foody stuff’ up without breaking even a single bead of sweat. I pointed out that she had other talents that they were envious of. I then waited anxiously expecting her to ask exactly what they were. Fortunately she didn't or I would have dug my pit even deeper!

An hour later the kitchen was back to its original pristine self, the failed cake binned and laptop wiped clean and put back where it belonged. We went down the road to the tea shop, ate some fabulous homemade victoria sponge, ordered a Mothering Sunday cake and had a good old laugh about what happened!

Rosey inadvertently plays Chinese whispers

My friend Rosey was out shopping the other day. Her mate Helen spotted her and weaved her way between the wandering shoppers. ‘Hey, Rosey Pee’ yelled Helen. 

‘Listen Rosey’ said Helen. ‘You won’t believe what Steve just told me’. ‘What’s that?’ asked Rosey. ‘Keep it to yourself Rosey Pee, because it’s a secret, but I just have to tell someone’. ‘Okie dokie’ said Rosey ‘Spill the beans then’.

‘Well’ said Helen ‘Steve said that Allan was talking to James, and James said something about Jane. You will so not believe this Rosey Pee – Jane is preggers, up the duff, mit kinder! And sweet innocent James is the father to be!’ 

For a moment Rosey looked a little confused as she ran the names through her head, then she held her hand to her mouth, her eyes bulging like organ stops. ‘Mum’s the word’ said Rosey chuckling to herself. ‘Mum’s the word - pregnant! Get it?’

As soon as Rosey got home she was on the phone to Amanda. ‘Mandy’ she whispered. ‘I can’t hear you Rosey, speak up’ said Amanda. ‘I can’t shout’ said Rosey ‘because it’s a secret, and ceilings have ears’. ‘Walls have ears Rosey’ laughed Amanda. ‘What, walls too?’ said Rosey’. ‘Never mind about that’, said Amanda, ‘what’s the big secret?’

‘Well’ said Rosey ‘I saw Helen today and she told me that James told her that his friend Allan has got Jane in the pudding club!’ Trust my friend Rosey to get it the wrong way round!

She couldn’t have told a worse person. Amanda is widely known as the mouth of the south! She couldn’t get Rosey off the phone quickly enough so that she could call her mate Nicki and tell her the secret she’d just heard. Nicki decided that it was too good a scandal to keep to herself.

She grabbed her coat, popped her feet half way into her shoes and rushed out of her front door, hopping and limping her way to the pub. Brenda the bartender was pouring drinks. ‘Listen’ said Nicki. ‘You won’t believe this!’

Brenda leaned across the bar so Nicki could whisper in her ear. She had a bit of difficulty hearing because the pub was very noisy, but she obviously got the gist of Nicki’s revelation if not the detail, because a look of utter amazement spread across her face. Within seconds she was on the phone and in minutes it was clear that the so-called secret was the talk of the bar.

The pub door opened and in walked Rosey. ‘Hi gang’ she called out as she strode towards her friends. ‘Who’s going to buy me a chardonnay then?’ ‘Should you be drinking that?’ asked Dickie. ‘Sorry?’ said Rosey as she started to hoist herself onto a bar stool. ‘Don’t sit up there’ said Mike. Suppose you topple off. Sit down here on a chair’. 

Rosey wondered what on earth was going on. ‘You never told me you were going out with Allan’ said Dickie. ‘I’m not’ said Rosey, ‘What are you talking about?’ ‘Don’t worry’ he said 'Your secret’s safe with us. How's the morning sickness by the way?'

Before a very confused Rosey could respond  Helen burst into the pub.  ‘Rosey Pee, you dark horse! You let me tell you all about James and Jane and all the time you had a secret of your own!’

Suddenly all the strange behaviour made sense to Rosey. 

Between them they sorted out the muddle and got back to what they do best, enjoying a drink together. And they raised their glasses to Jane  James and the sprog. 

Nicki suggested they all play a game. ‘I know’ said Rosey, let’s play Chinese Whispers!