Oh Mr Darcy, take me to Downton

I love a good period drama.

And I'm not talking about me turning all Joan Crawford when it's that time of the month.

The glamour, the love stories, the treachery.

But Pride and Prejudice aside, Downton Abbey is heads and bonnets above them all.

I'm hooked to this lavish production - tighter than Lady Edith's corset.

She walks in beauty like the night

Downton is exquisite and sumptuous.

Stunning locations, breathtaking scenery and dialogue to die for, my dear.

This attention to detail makes for an opulent, sensory treat.

Plus, have you seen the chandeliers?

Bejewelled gowns, hats, gloves, bow ties, morning coats.

Such elegance and finery has not been seen since the House of Idiot.

Sorry Catherine Cookson, but your flat capped world is far too grim.

I've not been this excited since I perved at Gary Lineker's bronzed thighs in tight white shorts during his visit to Rackhams circa 1986.

Escape to the country

Escapsim and fantasy, as I am transported by carriage to a romantic era when everything was genteel and polite.

Dresses were big and men were gallant.

Even the hovels look nice through rose coloured monocles.

As a teenager I was captivated by A Room with A View, where posh types holidayed in the likes of Florence. 

Hadn't they heard of Rhyl?

Forster's sophistication could not be found in Downtown Birmingham, where the only view was of the Pallasades Shopping Centre.

I drag Mr N round a stately home in Stratford-upon-Avon.

He refuses to ponce about in an emerald green, velvet tunic, while I take a turn around the courtyard with my parasol.  

The New Romantics

Declarations of love. Sonnets. Dangerous liaisons. Bodice ripping excitement.

More smouldering than a sixth former's GHDs.

It's a long journey, but when our couples finally get it on, you know it won't end in divorce, a division of CDs and a confrontation on Jeremy Kyle three years later.

Mary and Matthew. Elizabeth and Darcy. Jane and Rochester.

As a teenager, the nearest I got to being wooed was an awkward fumble outside Wimpy.

I'm too sexy for my shirt

Arrogant. Moralistic. Pompous and repressed. Masterful when necessary.

No, I'm not talking about a GP's receptionist, but the leading men in our tales.

Who can forget the iconic image of Darcy emerging from the lake in his sodden blouson?

For a while I would interview potential suitors by asking if they owned a big girl's blouse.

I was single for a while.

Then there are the diamonds in the rough. Coarse, rugged and firm.

Richard Armitage in North & South. My ultimate mantasy.

Plus Michael Fassbender's Rochester.  Swoon!

So please, Downton, can you introduce a few dashing heroes now that Matthew is spoken for? 

Maybe Hugh Jackman on horseback. In a frilly blouse.....

Austen girl powers

Our accomplished heroines are feisty, witty and measured.

Oh Jane Eyre and Queen Elizabeth Bennet, you are so sensible, with your smart wisdom.

But Lizzy, have you seen Colin Firth?

I admire them, but can't they just have a quick snog, lift a hemline and put on some Rimmel?

Lady Mary on the other hand is a true flapper. Silk and steel and cooler than a cucumber sandwich.

The rain in Spain falls mainly in the plane

These dramas are more English than Hinge and Bracket discussing the inclement weather over tea and macaroons in the Bath Assembly Rooms.

More plums than Gary Lineker's Persil white shorts.

Impeccable manners. Etiquette and class. Gentlemen tipping their hats and opening doors for ladies.

People took pride in their appearance. 

These days the couture is strictly Juicy and uniforms bear the stars of Ronald McDonald.

I visit Poundland in search of a Pheasant pie and lace hankies (I make do with Fray Bentos and  Kleenex) .

My husband lays his Burton anorak over a puddle outside. "I'm a Lady."

There 'aint nothing like a Dame

No period drama is worth its weight in smelling salts if it cannot boast an interfering matriarch with acidic one liners.

Judi Dench, Shirley McLaine and Maggie Smith, who plays the greatest bonnet bitch ever - Lady Violet, the Dowager Countess of Grantham.

Lady Violet: "I'm so looking forward to seeing your mother again. When I'm with her I am reminded of the virtues of the English."

Matthew: "Isn't she American?"

LV: "Exactly!"

The cook, the thief, the wife, the lover

Tragedy and comedy in equal measures. Executed to perfection by the eccentric cast of characters.

Bumbling clergymen, maiden aunts and simpering sisters.

The cads, the schemers, the harlots, the rebels, the Lady Macbeths.

Backbiting pantomime.

Poor, jealous Edith on Lady Mary's marriage to Matthew: "Love and position in one house and package. Who could ask for more?"

Birth, marriage and death. This is epic.

The torture of the trenches, the pain of unrequited love and the poignant sorrow of loss.

One moment we are laughing and the next we are in tears.

Like this week's Downton. Following a truly hilarious sing song around the piano, Lady Violet finally silences her American counterpart by stating that her husband wasn't "taken." He died.

Are you being served?

We care about what happens downstairs, too.

There is never a dull moment in the servants' quarters, from illegitimate babies, homosexuality and dog napping.

I'm a little confused over the Bates poisoning saga.

But I do hope Anna gives him a son. If only to guffaw at the title: 'Master Bates'.

I'm still expecting Mrs Overall to creep in with a rattling tray.

"More tea, Vicar?"

He's a jolly good Fellowes

Thanks to the likes of the Brontes, Eyre, Austen, Dickens and Shakespeare for creating such magnificent and beautifully penned stories.

Not forgetting Merchant Ivory, Andrew Davies, Tom Stoppard and, of course, Julian Fellowes.

I forgive you for Titanic.

Mad wives, bigamists, murderers and ghosts ("Heathcliff, it's me, it's Cathy.").

There are more skeletons than Lady Mary's pre-marital chamber.

Who cares if it wasn't all camomile lawns and powder puffs?

The Olympic opening ceremony got away with it.

This best demonstrated in French and Saunders' parody, 'Uptown Downstairs Abbey':

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r5dMlXentLw

And on that note, I bid you good day!

Secrets of Poundland

Sshhh! Tonight's Dispatches programme is called: the Secrets of Poundland.

With such a curious title, I'm expecting to discover something straight out of Harry Potter or mythological folklore.

But surely the green and white shop that sandwiches Sports Soccer and Cash Converters is about as secretive as Kerry Katona's love life.

My guilty secret

I frequent all of the pound and discount stores. Poundland, Poundworld, 99p Stores, Everything's a Pound and Poundstretcher (don't be fooled by this last one, most items are actually more than £1).

Bound for Poundland

But these days it's socially acceptable to come out of the checkout isn't it?

The first shops created a refreshing change. Less sophisticated than Wilko/s or Woolies (how I miss you, and Big W).

But cheap as Iceland chips.

Eventually Mom stopped asking how much items were.

Now these stores are everywhere. Poundland's End-on-sea. Although, they're always a little more civilised when you're on holiday.

Sound as a pound

Poundshops are common. Sense. Their prices are kind to my pocket and why pay more?

These stores have catered to my every need, through various chapters of my life and special occasions.

Pregnancy (a Spiderman rubber ring), babies (branded wet wipes), Valentine's (you can't go wrong with an 'I heart you' Toblerone, even on February 15th) and Mother's Day (2 cards for £1, that's both Moms covered).

The knack is knowing what to buy and when to go.

Oh, and taking a hessian shopper, if you don't want to be seen with a Poundland bag...

Have you got the time?

Only the brave would venture into this foreign land at peak time. 

Pensioners aimlessly strolling around, examining the shortbread and tinned ham.

The cries of children begging for just one more packet of Scampi Fries for lunch.

Go of a morning, while Jeremy Kyle is still conducting a live DNA test.

Or late afternoon, while the kids are washing down kebabs with full fat coke.

A different class

It's supposed to bring no shame, but when I see a Mom from school we do have an awkward moment near the Simon Webbe autobiographies.

I pray that she doesn't think I feed my kids on Skips and Pink Panther wafers.

This array of artificial edibles is clearly my husband's lunch.

Pound shops have become socially acceptable. In the same way as Primark (Primarni, Primarche) is now: "Totes cool" in a pisstaking (sorry, ironic) way, babes. More cute and kitsch than necessity.

My John Lewis loving Aunt finds pound shops very "gauche" (she means cheap) and waits outside while I run in for a jumbo roll of kitchen towel.

However, I swear one birthday she bought the boys teddies from that very store. I bet she made the cashier's day trying to pay with her House of Fraser card.

What to buy

The thrill of a bargain. There is such a diverse range.

I usually visit for specific items. Generally, branded goods.

They're also great for seasonal decorations, arts and crafts, stocking fillers and so much more.

Recently, I bought a pair of sunglasses. Not sure if they are UV protected, but who cares? They were £1, baby.

Sometimes you reach the till and realise it is even more of a bargain. Three for £1 (Diet Coke) or four (Pepsi Max - less superior than Coke? I never did pass the taste test challenge).

So what if the customers behind want to maim you?

Go back and grab that extra pouch of Felix.

"It's only a pound"

Six carrier bags threaten my circulation.

"It's only a pound." So I buy 'essentials' like a scalp massager, pasta measurer and the best of 911 CD 'At your service'.

I'm not stupid. I don't buy my entire shop here, otherwise we really would be living off Curly Wurlies and Fray Bentos pies (my husband is not averse to this mental image). 

I whizz past the bleach and air fresheners. Remember, they are only 79 pence in Lidl while Tesco are doing 3 for 2 at the moment.

And their economy brands: Basics or Savers. My own brand: Struggling

Sometimes it's soul destroying to buy an item in a 'proper shop' only to see it in a pound store.

Once I bought my friend's daughter a book for Christmas from TK Maxx only to see it in Poundland a week later.

Maybe that's why she bought us an 'Images of inner city Birmingham - the 1990s' calendar the following year.

What not to buy

Plastic fantastic tat that falls apart, including the unofficial kids merchandise like Thunder Mcking, Cretaceous Age 3 and Mushi Monstrocities.

Short sell by dates are a dicey game, as are jumbo sized bottles of well known products. Including the washing up liquid that I can't imagine Nanette Newman endorsing.

Pregnancy testing kits, contraception, hair dyes, skincare (fake tan) and medicine are among the items I may not buy, after the incident with the rash. I'm not saying it was related to the product, it's just I could not translate the Slovak.

But I know what to expect. I have my eyes wide open.

Checking out

The queues can be scary, but they move faster than a Chav at a Bright House sale.

One man pays in pennies and another tries to pay for one can of Lynx by Switch.

Meanwhile, the assistants try to interest you in a mass clearance buy of Easter Eggs - even though it's September.

They do returns too. One shopper brought back a can of WD40 because she had seen it for less at the 99p store. In the end, they price matched it.

The price we pay

How do they do it? Where did they come from? Who made them? Is it encouraging the disposable generation and is it quality verses cost?

I'm not sure, but many depend on these stores. They still represent good VFM in these credit crunching times.

I suspect tonight's expose will investigate all of the above and reveal that somebody is being exploited.

Is that the secret?

Or will they discover checkout 9 and 3/4 and find that a goblin in a green and white outfit with a penchant for multi pack Picnic bars runs the store?

Mouldy Old Cake

A pair of knitted booties,  tiny hand prints set in clay, a kiss curl in a bow.

Some of the precious baby keepsakes we treasure forever.

I have kept all of the above, as you would expect.

There are, however, a few less cuddly additions to the collection, as I was reminded today when I finally said: "Goodbye" to some mouldy old cake.

I'm not American, but five years ago - to the week - we held a Naming Day for the boys.

The centre piece was a blue and white cake topped with an icing teddy and tiger, each representing a boy.

Disney on Ice

The top tier was preserved in the freezer, amid the Arctic Roll and Smiley Faces.

Cryogenically frozen, like Walt Disney.

Only this was more Hammer Horror.

A mutant Teddy and Tiger greeted us when we defrosted the freezer.

The thawed creatures had grown fuzzy, green mould on their snout and nose, respectively.

Clearly icing can't reside in the freezer for years, unlike that block of peas circa 2004 .

(Just ask Stacey Solomon - she's been to Iceland).

To prevent an outbreak of salmonella, we decided to dispose of the contaminated cake.

Fungus the Bogeymom

Only it sat festering and decaying, like something out of Great Expectations, due to my procrastination.

I was saddened to part with it.

But as my husband binned the fated, fungus-festooned food source, I remembered I had an album full of Naming Day photographs. And their matching satin sailor suits (boy, they're going to love me when they're 18).

Mouldy old cake's not the only disgusting baby memento I saved.

Cutting the Cord

Recently, while looking through some baby keepsakes, my Aunt's curiosity grew when we came across some tissue.

"Ooh what's this? A lock of hair?" she enquired, trying to open the square of Charmin Ultra.

I wracked my brain, but couldn't remember....

Until my Aunt shrieked, having successfully pulled the tissue unstuck.

Only to reveal a flash of dirt.

What was that skanky, congealed, dried goo that was welded to the tissue, like a boys' bogey picking session?

Then I remembered.

An umbilical cord stump.

Yuk!

Sentimental

Once it had been so precious. I had been given the boys' 'stumps' by the hospital and then discarded them without a care.

But after watching Portland Babies, I realised that some women keep their umbilical cord stumps.

Some have the entire cord crafted into a heart shape. Lovingly preserved so that they can share this beautiful reminder of a mother's attachment to her baby with that child in the future.

My friend did this. Her son is still recovering from the trauma of being presented with the 'special' object on stage at his 16th birthday party.

I made my poor husband don a pair of Marigolds and root through four bin bags at midnight to retrieve the putrid, pus filled items. I named him 'Stig of the Stump'.

Forgotten, they were then left rotting in a box of bits for years.

I only kept them because that's what some people do.

Keepsake? FFS!

My friend thinks my mementos are weird.

But I think it's odd that she has kept a stick with wee on it (her positive pregnancy test) even though the thin blue line has vanished.

I did about five tests (I was in denial, plus, buying a test from Poundplanet is really not advisable).

Should I keep all five, like a set of steak knives?

Each to their own. Whatever works for you.

Sweet Tooth

It's not unusual to keep your children's first tooth. But what about the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th and so on?

I've got enough pearly whites to make a necklaces 

Only instead of candy (I'm not American) it's made up of upper left molars and lower right incisors.

My husband thinks it's a bit macabre. A little Blair Witch doctor.

I'm not sure what to do with this assortment of apothecary specimens.

Scabies Keepsakes

I'm sentimental, or maybe just confused about what's 'normal' and what's hygienic.

Don't be mistaken. I didn't wolf down my placentas with a bottle of Chianti (I'm vegetarian anyway) and I haven't got my tonsils in a jar.

But It's like an episode of Fleabag Monkeyface in my keepsakes box.

Locks of hair, teeth, body parts are among the bacteria laden artifacts.

What next? My last pre-pregnancy tampon? A muslin cloth with dried on milky sick? The first meconium filled nappy?

I know I'm not alone. I dread to think what's lurking out there. Nail clippings? Eyelashes?

Chicken pox scabs?

Memento to Go

I can't let go of these 'trophies' because they remind me of infancy, like the boxes of baby grows in the loft. Maybe I have attachment issues?

Sometimes, it is because I'm not sure what to keep.

Who is to decide what's acceptable and what's not? What harm does it do?

Clue: Items that don't require a visit from Rentokill.

I have lots of nice keepsakes all carefully preserved.

Plus, the greatest record of all - my memories.

I can slam dunk (da) junk from arts and crafts projects, having retained the genuinely precious items.

http://thenews-on.blogspot.co.uk/2012/08/slam-dunk-da-junk.html

But maybe I need the Germinator to help me Slam dunk (da) gunk.     .

Dreaming of Sleep

When John Lennon sang: "I'm so tired I haven't slept a wink. I'm so tired my mind is on the blink," he was referring to a girl.

Gone are the days where my sleep deprivation is caused by matters of the heart.

In fact, if there's a choice between a romantic frisson or a good night's zzzz I'll opt for sleep any day, thanks.

I'm more like the Prodigy's Keith: "I can't get no sleep."

See, insomnia plays havoc with your grammar.

The Holy Grail

I haven't slept properly since pregnancy, seven years ago.

I'm on a frustrating quest. Like Scrat, the acorn-seeking squirrel from 'Ice Age'. 

Only, I'm in search of the illusive eight hours' sleep.

Sleeping Patterns

As a youngster I suffered from nightmares and the odd bit of sleepwalking. No doubt bought on by my fear of Daleks and the child catcher from 'Chitty Chitty Bang Bang'.

In my teens I could sleep for England. Going to bed after 'The Hitman and Her' and waking up in time for 'Neighbours' (and I'm not talking about the lunchtime edition, either).

Not even Dad's pneumatic snoring could stir me from my slumber.

In my professional years I burnt the candle at both ends and would pass out in an intoxicated coma after a work's do.

But I was young. I could take it. I could lounge around all weekend reading Bridget Jones and cooking microwave meals for one.

Plus, my boss took pity on me. I think it was the vomiting incident in the filing cabinet which persuaded her.

I shared the bed with my cat Charlie and we would nap together.

When I became part of a couple sleep was the last thing on my mind....

Sleep like a Baby

Sleep became scarce in pregnancy. At the peak I was carrying nearly 14 lbs of babies, measuring 5ft 2 in height and circumference.

A weary Weeble.

Weeble: Three weeks before I popped

Weebles wobble but they don't fall down

 

Mr N was relegated to the sofa, while I cuddled up in bed with Phil, my pregnancy pillow.

Charlie was still permitted access. 

Pain, discomfort, hot flushes, heartburn, indigestion; the usual suspects.

"Get used to it," they would say.

"This is what it'll be like when the babies arrive."

As I was propelled into a further six plus years of bleary eyes.

The newborn era, with separate feeding and sleep times (the boys were never in sync) were hard. My husband and I would simply pass each other like ships in the night.

During the day I would commit the usual sleep-deprived crimes of accidentally putting my car keys in the bin, leaving the house in my leopard print slippers and having to re-count the head count when I went out (remember, two babies, not one).

Then came teething, potty training, escaping from the cot, night terrors.

I was tempted to glug a bottle of 'Medised' just to get some shut eye.

"It's only for the first few years," they said.

I can honestly say that we have not had a single night when one of the boys hasn't woken up crying or had a nightmare.They'll be in Junior school next year!

Many friends with kids the same age or even younger look on in shock at this.

Maybe the boys have inherited my night terrors (they used to be known as nightmares). Maybe we are all worthy candidates for a sleep study.

Mine will be buying their first pint before this subsides.

I became used to disturbed sleep patterns.

Reasons to be Tearful

On paper I would appear to get sleep. But it is broken.

I am a light sleeper. Once I wake my mind goes into overdrive.

It's a vicious circle. The more I think about the time and how little sleep I've had, the harder it is to get back down.

The problem may be hereditary. I come from a line worriers who wake at the drop of a pin.

My Nan used to get up in the dark at 5am. God knows why. The post office didn't even open until 9.30am.

My Mom goes to bed at 2am. She likes to read. "Ooh, what have you got on the go?" I ask.

"Jordan's autobiography. Peter's autobiography. Jodie Marsh's autobiography," she replies.

It's the stuff of nightmares.

There are lots of excuses why I am useless at sleeping. Namely me. I am my own worst enemy.

My typical night:

7.45pm - Boys in bed
8pm - Dinner and tidy up
9pm- Essential FB maintenance (her) video games (him)
10pm - I start to feel tired, but fight it
11pm - I go to bed
11.30pm - I fall asleep (if lucky)
12am - Mr N creeps into the room by light of his Blackberry. I am disturbed (literally)
1am - A boy wakes. I get up and return him to bed
2am - Neighbours are playing musical cars
3am - Another boy wakes. I go in to reassure him that  Kermit is not in the wardrobe
4am - The cat flap goes. I consider going downstairs armed with a can of Elnett to confront the imaginary intruder
4-6am - Thoughts active. Body not. Did I return that library book? Are we running low on Weetabix? I scribble my thoughts down in a book by the bed. The next day this resembles a poor man's  Pictionary.
6am - I drift off.
6.30am - A refuse truck decides to visit our cul-de-sac.

Morning is more than broken. It's decimated.

My husband is oblivious to all of this.

"Well that was a good night, wasn't it?" he says.

The Results

Akin to a hangover, but without any of the pleasures of the previous night.

Shakes, hallucinations, blurred vision, headaches, bloodshot eyes, dizziness, irritability, irrationality, slowness, emotional instability.

Man, I feel like Judy Finnigan...

Sod Touche Eclat - I need a tonne of clay to sort these bags out. I look haggard.

I need intravenous caffeine.

The school run is monosyllabic. The shades should shield my sore eyes and maybe act as a deterrent against mothers with testing questions about forthcoming parties, visits and fetes.

I should escape relatively unscathed. Unlike the time I handed in the boys' dinner money, only to get the sums terribly wrong.

It's a good job I no longer work in an office.

When I returned to work nine months after the boys were born I felt like I had been bludgeoned with a large hole punch.

Before I even entered the office I had been toiling for hours with sick, shit and snot.

Meanwhile, a colleague was having a traumatic morning because she had run out of Oats so Simple.

I attended a 'Wellbeing in the Workplace' course. We had to lie on the floor, close our eyes and imagine the waves were lapping over us.

I couldn't relax and find my 'Zen'.

Firstly, the thoughts of water reminded me that I needed the toilet.

Secondly, it was too noisy. A rotund middle aged man from planning was already snoring away. Lucky him. But the combination of his snorts and rippling nasal hair was all too much.

The Science of Sleep

I've tried to combat my insomnia with various remedies from lavender oil to counting sheep. Even ear plugs.

A dream catcher, lovingly crafted by my children.

The bloody feathers ignited my recurring spider dream (where I dart out the room screaming because a giant arachnoid is about to land on my face).

Extreme Measures

Nothing works.

Except for gin.

My Nan, who is 98 next month, always swore by: "Just a drop" of sherry each night to see her through to 5am.

And she still has the complexion of an 80-year-old.

Only a big mallet, alcohol or ketamine will knock this mother out.

Mr N wants to check me in to the sleep clinic with all the twitchers and screamers.

It's one step away from a straight jacket as far as I'm concerned.

Some friends follow their children's sleeping hours. But I can't bring myself to go to bed at eight, even though I am usually shattered.

What next? Warm milk? Biscuits? 'Guess how much I love you?' and a Pillow Pet (actually, that's rather appealing).

Maybe a spa retreat is required. Like in the olden days. A flotation tank. Like a giant amniotic sac.

I would be thrashing about like a distressed Porpoise.

I bet Sarah Harding never had this trouble in rehab.

Sleeping at inappropriate Times

Don't get me wrong, I need sleep. I seem to be permanently tired.

Typically, I can't seem to sleep in my bed at night.

Nor in the daytime.

Power nap? More like energy zap. My stores are lower than Tesco on a Bank Holiday.

I used to lie in at weekends. But now I get up, make breakfast and pack the boys' lunchboxes, only to realise it isn't a school day.

But I can sleep at other times. When I'm not supposed to.

Like on the sofa, in the middle of an action/alien/horror film.

Or when my husband is re-telling his day at work.

I always miss the end of the film (it's not integral to the plot. The aliens/zombies are destroyed and the American soldiers win) and awake to Alan Hansen's dreary tones.

"Just leave me to sleep here," I say.

I wake up, delirious, on the sofa. Natalie Cassidy is barking on about the Health Lottery (I still don't understand what this is).

What's that noise? The acrobatic "We can rest anywhere, ha ha!' cats are licking themselves.

I'm so coming back as a feline...

Boozing and Snoozing

I can sleep after a skinful.

But then I wake up fully clothed, dehydrated and yearning for grease - the food source - not the 1970s musical. Although that's always a good hangover film.

Recently, I went on a girly hotel break.

We went to bed in the early hours, a little worse for wear.

I dropped into a blissful slumber. Until my energetic friends - with their swimming costumes - gave me a 6am alarm call, asking if I fancied a dip in the pool.

Even the thought of Tom Daley parading around in his Speedos couldn't drag me out of my pit.

Turns out there were a couple of ageing businessmen from Cheadle in the shallow end discussing the latest sales figures for Allen keys.

I didn't miss much. But I did get some pillow time.

Sleep is for Wimps

Maggie Thatcher famously existed on just four hours' sleep. I am less of an Iron and more of an MDF Lady.

I do need more than six or so broken hours.

Many of my friends rise with oodles of energy and are competing in marathons and bake offs, all before a full day at the office, while I am on a go slow.

I need to face the fact that I may never sleep well again. Another sign of getting older.

There are some positives:

If there is an emergency in the night, like a rogue cat sneaking into the house, I will hear it.

I can get up and watch televisual events as they happen.

Like the airing of the final, disappointing, episodes of Lost, various gambling programmes, baseball from the US or Babestation (I don't even like sport. Nor do I bat for the other side).

Because I wake up early of a weekend, I will never miss an episode of Saturday Morning Kitchen or a Fleabay delivery from the postman.

Every cloud...

Pass me the Sherry. Just a drop. I mean bottle....