Tag Archives: humour

Downton Abbey – A Scene



LORD GRANTHAM is on the telephone.

(puts down telephone receiver)
Good god. War has just been declared.

Enter MATTHEW in full military uniform.

I’ve signed up and have just completed three months’ basic training.  I’m now going to say something that Mary will find offensive before I go off to The War.

I’m taking offence!

MARY turns her head away.

I’m going off to The War.

MATTHEW exits.

Let’s turn Downton into a convalescence hospital for officers.

In the background, we see CARSON wheeling in a hospital bed.

MATTHEW re-enters the room.

I’m back from The War. Now I’m going to make up to Mary before I go back to The War.

Oh, Matthew! All is forgiven. Please take my lucky gonk. And God speed!

Actually, I’m now back from The War having already gone back to The War since the last time I came back from The War earlier in this scene. But now, I’m gravely injured and unconscious.

Oh, Matthew!

It’s okay, because I’ve already recovered. And my fiance has conveniently died. So now we can totally be together.

Oh, Matthew!

The telephone rings. CARSON answers it and hands the receiver to LORD GRANTHAM who listens briefly.

Good god. Peace has been declared. The War is over.

In the background, we see CARSON wheeling a hospital bed out of the house.



Prayer for the Working Mother


Blessed are the missing school shoes.
Because you really haven’t had enough variations on the following conversation minutes before you’re due to leave the house:

MOTHER: Why haven’t you put on your school shoes?
SMALL CHILD: Because they’re not on the shoe rack.
MOTHER: Did you *put* them on the shoe rack when you got home from school yesterday?
MOTHER: (hisses) Then why would they be there?
SMALL CHILD: (hopefully) Because mummy put them there?

Blessed is the child who *thinks* they might be “a little bit sick”.
Because there can no longer be indulgent ‘mental health’ days awarded to such a child. Necessity dictates that they need to be firing out both ends (with extreme force) and/or burning hotter than the sun before a sick day is permissible. Fact.

Blessed is the note discovered languishing at the bottom of the school bag that makes everyone cry.
Because dressing three children in national costume and providing three different plates of allergy-free food for ‘Multicultural Week’ is entirely possible with only twenty minutes’ notice.

Blessed is the muesli bar.
Because, even though it contains more sugar than a three litre bottle of Coke, it has the word ‘muesli’ in it and can therefore be used as a last minute breakfast substitute for the child who has refused all offers of breakfast and claims they are not hungry… until they enter school grounds .

Blessed is the school’s lost property bin.
Because, small child, Mummy can not go home just to get your hat and, for today at least, you will need to pretend you are ‘Ibrahim F’ or ‘Bethanee W’ if you want to go outside and play. Deal with it.

Blessed is the orange petrol light flashing on the dash board while driving over the Westgate Bridge in heavy traffic.
Because when you’re constantly rushing between A and B, there’s never a good time to stop for petrol.

Blessed are the dishes and the laundry and the shopping and the housework.
Because the fuckers won’t do themselves while you’re at work.

Blessed are the small children sitting on the other side of a flimsy curtain while you have your biannual pap smear.
Because nobody wants to sacrifice two hours of annual leave to sit in a waiting room just so a doctor can shove cold metal up your vag.

Blessed is the woman who tries to do everything and ends up doing nothing particularly well.
Because sorry, Mummy has to go to work and sorry, I have to leave now to get to the school on time and sorry, darling, we’re having fish fingers and frozen peas for dinner. Again.


The Administrator

The rumours are true: I have returned to gainful employment (as opposed to the apparently gainless unemployment of full-time childrearing) as an admin shitkicker for a small not-for-profit company.

Mostly, it is a very happy situation.  I like them and they like me. Or at least they SAY they like me. They certainly like the baked goods I bring in and they support my use of The Chicken Of Persuasion as an upward management tool.

HOWEVER, they will not let me have my own business card. They SAY it’s because I never actually leave the office and meet anyone but *I* say it’s because they read my post-from-a-previous-life about self-laminating my business cards with sticky-tape and handing them to [famous] people. I mean, as if I’d do that. Shuh!

Subsequently, they SAY I can use the ‘generic’ business card should I ever need to give someone a business card (for example, the lady who collects the sanitary hygeine unit),  to which *I* say (while stamping my feet and pouting a little in a most professional manner) that I intend to personally hand write my name in glittery pen on Every. Single. Generic. Business. Card until I’ve made all those generic bitches my own.


As compensation, my boss said I could come up with my own job title. I was delighted as I’d only recently confided (read: complained) to him that ‘Admin Assistant’ was not a title befitting a woman of my age and experience (read: ego).

My face must have given something away because he was quick to add to his offer that it needed to be “within reason”.

“For example, you can’t choose a job title like ‘Queen [NDM] The Best’,” he said.

Of course the minute he SAID ‘Queen [NDM] The Best’, it became the job title I’d wanted, like, ALL. MY. LIFE. especially when I saw how good it looked in my email signature in Comic Sans font – centre-aligned, of course. And then, when I wrote it on a generic card with a little crown instead of the dot above the ‘i’ in my [actual] name, it felt like all the pieces of the puzzle of my life had come together… to form an ‘i’ with a crown instead of the dot.

In the end, however, I settled for ‘Administrator’. It must be said, though, that I pushed quite heavily for ‘THE Administrator’ (like The Terminator in an “I’ll be back… to photocopy your board papers” kind of way).

And it should also be noted that I subsequently awarded my boss a similar courtesy and allowed him to choose his own blog nom de guerre. He chose ‘Houston’. He SAYS it is in honour of the recently departed Whitney but *I* say it’s Houston as in “Houston, we have a problem… with our Administrator.”

History will decide.