My Social Media Day

Wake up at 6 a m to the radio 4 news. Comfort myself that there are fewer lies than on B B C news on television. Contemplate the day ahead, but it won't go away, so decide to face it. Find the kettle.

   With the first cup of tea bag comes the beginning of my dialogue with social media. On my e mail promotions are my daily doses of nonsense. First there is the funeral instructions -- how did they find out I was an old woman? That is followed by Harry's razor. I don't have a beard - yet. For heaven's sake. Then the one of Scamfuck. A bit late in the day; I am disgusted, but my Ad Block is clearly not working.

   What kind of e mails do I get? A few from my Writers' Group, which are routine, a few from another writers' group, which are reminders to get something written. I am not a 'write to order' kind of person, so those can be safely ignored. My banks from India admonish me about lack of transactions, threats to close my accounts down.  They'll save me the effort of doing it myself.

  I browse Twitter and Facebook in that order. Look at Peston and decide Lewis Goodall is more useful. Where are we with Brex-bloody-it? Hopeless. I give Andrew Marr a safe berth; can't stand his oily lies.

 I have a few friends on Facebook who send daily greetings and wise quotes. I don't open them. Wish they'd just fester like the rest of us, fuming and fretting. I hate even more those posts of flowers and candles and ceremonial altars. Then I have the instructions: wish so-and-so a great birthday. Now I don't send birthday greetings to anyone Facebook has thrust in my face. Cheek! I wish there was a way of getting rid of Facebook and yet keeping in touch with my family in India. They are all there on Whats App and Facebook.

   Occasionally Facebook treads on my memories, mangles them, makes me sad. Who gave them the license?

   I get my own back on the media by cursing the Tories with vigour.

A single-mum's day

A SINGLE MUM'S (my daughter's) DAY

Today is D I Y day again, this time a bedroom is at risk. All the old cup boards and the wardrobe have been broken up and pulled out, and now recline in various positions, a little like Jacob Rees-

Mogg, on my back-patio.
   The cushions for the sitting room are done and already bear the imprints of my head, the cats, the dog and my books. The remotes for the T V are in the crevices. Good place to be as I don't need to search anywhere else.
   In between, the woman of the household cleaned and disinfected the cat pee. Pepper, our black-and white cat, which actually has a brain, (unlike Boo-boo, who is a large brain-dead fur-ball) had a confrontation with a big vehicle, some years ago, which she lost. She was a year old and pee is something she has no control over. She's pretty good, especially in finding me when I go to bed, to make me feel she absolutely adores me. This is a myth -- what she wants is a prolonged scratching of her chin and neck, to the accompaniment of loud purrs.
   The woman, my girl, then sat down and had a good cry over the lorry deaths, cursed Priti Patel and the Tory Government, and made me my third cup of tea. (Few more to come.)
   Later she will drive her teen daughter to Beckenham, to a friend's house, about 45 minutes each way, for a dose of half-term titivation.
   Meanwhile, what did senior Nana do?  Faffed around the garden after the gardener, watched the Brexit parade and gave staunch advice to daughter as she worked. I am good at that. Advice is normally largely ignored.
   It is a busy day. We have to get back in time to watch Liverpool play Napoli. The Press keeps telling us we have a poor away record. True, True... I wonder --  however did we win the Chaampions' Leagues last year?