Saturday, 26 February 2011


'i think something very very wrong is going on in England.' my Deutsh drinking partner said with a moment of concern. 'i tried to telephone my son and there was just silence.'
'Yeah I had the same when I rang home.' I wanted to finish my drink and just go back to my room and check the news but this lady looked bloody miserable. I gestured to the barkeep for another for us and inwardly sighed. Hey,maybe I would get lucky this time? Stick that in your pipe and smoke it Julian, bet you never had someone thirty years older than you,you French fuck. The thought made me queasy. Still,her features were softening with every sip of the beer. Alcohol can take years, not to mention pounds,off potential conquests. Mmm granny fanny.

Friday, 25 February 2011

Allergy girl part 3

'Ha marny farny sarny harny marny day, harna say izza Lizzy' came the beautiful,slightly African tribal sounding, tunefully accurate voice of my older sister Mary before she stared at me with an expression of comical confusion whilst simultaneously making a flat monotonous 'aaaaaaaa' noise and vanishing into her bedroom.

When I was being born and my mother was in labour my mother's brother Damon baby sat Mary whilst my dad was with her. She came to visit with Uncle Damon after i'd made an appearance and as she'd gotten a little agitated waiting in the waiting room Damon had leant her his Walkman. Damon was a geeky rocker who accorrding to my mum never quite got the look right. But he was amazing with Mary and had a uncanny way of calming her down like no other could,like some kind of,dare I say it,Retard Whisperer.
When my sister was brought in to see me she was listening to whatever radio station Damon had it tuned into and somehow catalogued in her somewhat unusual brain the song that was playing at the precise moment she saw me. How,you may think,do I know what song was playing? Well Mary had found the volume dial and turned it way up to eleven,thank you Tap fans,and Damon heard the strains of a favourite ditty of his followed by Mary shrieking at the top of her voice, 'Phroar, Uncle Damon, have you farted?'
Whether or not Uncle Damon had indeed committed an act of flatulence upon seeing me,his niece,for the first time is one of our family's mysteries,however the song that became Mary's self-penned masterpiece, 'The Lizzy Song' was not a mystery.
I happened upon the track when digging through my Uncle Damon's cds after he died when my mum and I went through his stuff. 'Since You've Been Gone' by the band Rainbow is the song that Mary made her own and if you too sing the above lyrics along to the chorus you'll see it fits perfectly.

But hey this story is about ME,not Uncle Damon, although he can be part of this if you want. Back to where I was before I sidetracked...

Saturday, 19 February 2011

Allergy Girl part 2

Okay,so things aren't quite that intense,but I am allergic to all of those things and do have similar,albeit majorly less dramatic,side effects. Most people, when they introduce me into conversation,can't help but focus on my allergies and love to take morbid pleasure in listing them off one by one. I'm more than just a pox-ridden pus-filled girl-shaped blister,i'm a human being!

My name is Elizabeth and I am around twenty. I live at home with my mother and elder sister Mary. Mary is sixteen years older than me and is severely autistic. She is taller and stockier than me and is as strong as an ox. Most of the time as pleasant as can be,drawing pictures, singing in her special made up language that makes me think of African tribes she's like a grown up four year old.  But piss her off and she'll pulverize you! Anything can piss Mary off. Last month she accidentally bit the inside of her lip whilst eating a cheese and tomato sandwich. A split second after noticing the pain and the blood on her bread she erupted in a ear-perforating shriek and struck me a left hook to the eye which sent me reeling off the kitchen chair and smashing my head off the oven door. I needed three stitches on my head and had a plum for an eye.
My mother developed an immunity to Mary's outbursts years ago and is about the only person who can control her when she's in her worst of tantrums. But these were rare occasions as we were both good at calming her down.

Our father left us when I was about eleven months old,i have never known him,after he witnessed Mary punch the living shit out of me and my mother having to shield me from her flailing fists. Mary hated children,especially when they made any kind of loud noise. Father was a physically and mentally weak person and I believe scared of his own offspring. He vanished one day with the majority of his and my mother's joint savings and the car,oh and Tara,the Alsatian dog that apparently worshipped the air I breathed.
I must hasten to add however, Mary is no psycho and we would never ever have her institutionalized. Her medication helps and she's very independent for some one of her nature. Most of her time she spends in her room where she draws, watches telly, listens to music. Sometimes it's amusing to hear her having conversations with herself,answering each question in another voice an octave higher. Idlings out aloud of what she was thinking, maybe what she fancied for tea. I'd lay on my bed listening,forgetting my bruises. However things started getting a little bit weird when I heard a third voice, the Other Mary. 

Friday, 18 February 2011

Bluebirds part 2

As soon as i'd seen the news I left my room with a fuzzy booze head,the kind you get when you've drunk some but not enough,and cruised to the lobby.
The hot blonde receptionist,let's call her Aurora, was a-flustered. Cheeks ruddy,phone handset jammed beneath her pixie chin,half a dozen irate suited men shouting abuse at her. Obviously it was her,and her fault alone,that the country had come to a stand still, and it was perfectly reasonable and not to mention totally productive to hold her personally responsible for the entire fiasco. One thing worse than tourists were businessmen. Thinking they had special privilages because they were important. I'm sure Aurora,if capable, would have happily tugged on a nipple to inflate the emergency dingy that she kept inside her sphincter for crisis such as these,and sailed these fuckers like Chitty Chitty fucking Bang Bang to Angleterre,that's French for England,if it stopped them from mentally stapling her to her 'help desk' or whatever their wine-stained wank-sticks where envisioning!
Well even though my heart,and other major organs,went out to her I needed some info on the airport situation so I went to sit patiently at the bar opposite her desk. I ordered a lager and sipped it and watched as she finally cracked under the pressure and screamed at the men. Poor girl. A couple of extra staff members came to her rescue so my mind was put at rest.

There was an old woman at the bar,two piece red velvet skirt suit...actually why the hell am I telling you what she had on? As if I was checking her out! But this old gal caught my eye,and she smiled warmly at me and nodded over to the receptionist. 'they think it's her fault but it's not. It is easy to focus one's anger on the closest person.' I detected a German lilt in her voice when she spoke. The barman handed her a clear drink with ice.
'you trying to get to England too?' I asked expecting confirmation.
She shook her head and paid the barman,'not yet no,i'm on holiday from there though,visiting relatives in Germany. A one night stay here first though.'
'Ah right,well i hope you'll get to your destination without the troubles i'm having.' I said trying to sound gentlemanly but no doubt coming across as sarcastic or patronising.
Taking a long,rather unlady like, swig of her drink she looked at me out of startling green eyes and said sincerely, 'you don't know the half of it yet. I hope you like croissants sir because your stay in France,' she spat the word out, racism? ' going to be a long one.'

Monday, 14 February 2011

''allergy girl and the other mary''

The Ballad Of Allergy-Girl And The Other Mary.

What do I see before me? I see my battered Converse boots, once were red now a dirty muddy ruddy colour. Like leaves in autumn that cling on for as long as they dare before sauntering to the ground. Above my Converse my legs, stalk-thin and uncased in lime-green skinny-fit jeans. I know lime-green! But one has to stick with what’s fashionable to avoid even more ridicule. Above my legs, the rest of me. My boots dangle over a drop of, okay I don’t know the exact measurement but I’m sat on the balcony rail on the twentieth floor of an apartment block so below me is a considerable drop.
The apartment block is ancient and decrepit and due for demolition in a day or so. Obviously there are no inhabitants still and all necessary precautions have been made in the last week to make sure no one could get in or out of the building. But I got in because I can do anything I want to because I’m a superhero. I’m Allergy-Girl!
Okay so I don’t have any super human powers or anything, but hey neither did Batman. Beside me is Mary 2, she’s my big sister and entirely fictitious. I know that now. It’s why I am here. She showed me the way and gave me the courage to perform what I must do.
The few months since the birth of Mary 2 have been so eventful and bizarre; she certainly opened my eyes up to a lot of things that went unseen. Let me tell you how I came to be here, one jump away from my death.

Have you ever just been that bored, that distant, that brain dead that you sit and stare at the inside of your eyeballs, or like me, the inside of the glasses your wearing? Noticing the minute specks of dust and grime that you’d never see unless you phased out and went out of focus for a while. You don’t even realise you’ve zoned out until someone or something gets your attention and you snap out of it. And when you try and think about what it was you were thinking about you never know. White noise, just the beating of your heart in your head?
I have moments like that a lot, time will pass by and I don’t even see it, the TV will be on and I couldn’t even tell what had been on.
I wonder where my mind goes at times like these, I feel like a zombie and if I could see myself my tongue would be lolling out of the corner of my mouth, chin in my chest and eyes half open. A vegetable.
I want to feel alive again. Alive, not just simply surviving. Take one of these high caffeine energy drinks and put it in an intravenous drip. “Anxiety in a can”, that’s what the Scottish comedian called it. Those beverages, the wake up call of millions of Jeremy Kyle fans, never do anything for me; just make my heart beat faster and me more jittery.
It’s amazing how I can do this as well as have my mind in a completely different place entirely. How many hours do I spend in auto pilot?
People treat other people like machines, so why not just act like one? I’m a glorified automaton. Sit me on my docking device and I’ll play you a tune until it’s time for you to switch me off.
Before I have a chance to say anything a twenty pound note is held out to me between immaculately manicured fingers lazily like a cigarette. Not a word is said as I pluck the note from the woman’s hand. I am the servant, you are my mistress. She doesn’t even look at me as I complete the transaction, doesn’t even dare do anything that takes her mind away from her precious mobile phone. Look at her with her pristine face, perfectly made-up, clothes probably more expensive than they look. Her hair doing exactly what it should be, shiny glossy. She spends a lot of money on nothing, expensive food that’s made and processed by the same companies that manufacture the value produce. It’s the same but specifically chosen to make sure it’s untainted, not mis-shapen or scarred, perfect like her. But she deserves all the best. The best clothes, the best make up, the best men, because she’s worth it.
Her laugh is styled to sound flirtaceous and mischievous, no doubt as integral to her image as her designer garb and trophy boyfriend.
Boyfriend packs the groceries excruciatingly slow, sensibly, neatly so everything is organised. Go on put the tin of water chestnuts on top of the bread, go on I dare you! He or she has made him look as perfect as her with his expensive clothes and stubble so short and perfectly cropped it’s as if it’s been painted on. Their skin is so flawless, not a blemish on either of them. A carefully selected tuft of hair hangs down his chiseled jaw line from beneath his woollen hat. How much did you hair cost you Mister? More than my monthly food bill? He looks at me sympathetically for a second as he takes his change off me, his girlfriend too busy chatting about her latest purchases in some fashion boutique to even care about a few measly coins. Why is it always sympathetic looks that people feel like giving me? His fingers brush mine, the warmth is nice on my cold thin digits. I bet you even have the perfect body temperature too don’t you?
Mister and Missus Perfectisimo take their bags of thoughtfully packed groceries from me hand in hand, smiling clean, even white teeth. I watch them depart. She hangs her phone up as soon as she’s ways from the till and places it in her hand bag without even saying farewell to the caller. Was she even on the phone? Of course she wasn’t, it was a ruse to avoid communication with me, not just because I’m one of the lesser folk oh no. because I served her the day before with her lover. As if I would say anything! Who would believe, let alone listen to, little old me?

‘Alright Lizzy?’ a low dirty gutteral voice calls down at me. The Voice sounds like It has just crawled out of an underground reservoir full of the excrement and filth that is too rancid for the sewers above to hold. It’s dragged It’s stinking putrid carcass through rivers of faeces shat out of the sphincters of gangrenous paedophiles and surfaced on the streets of Walsall to spread it’s foul contamination upon the innocent. The owner of The Voice makes the comparison before seem like a giant fluffy pink marshmallow being orbited by a flock of flying pink space babies in bunny costumes giggling and googling and leaving behind a vapour trail of pink glittery fairy dust.
It’s Mr Donald, or ‘Mike’ to his friends, and unfortunately for yours truly, I have the privilege of filling the criteria for a placement on board his friendship. What did I do to earn this once in a lifetime, chance in a million opportunity I hear you cry? Why all I had to do was listen to him, smile and serve him three times a week for the last two years.
Why don’t these intolerable old fuckers realise I’m only polite because I’m being paid to be? And surely then they should set aside a bonus on our monthly salary for showing enthusiasm at the inbred customers.

Mr Donald had loaded his shopping on the conveyor and taken up root in his usual place, directly in front of me. I don’t even need to see what he is doing as his ever repetitive supermarket mannerisms will be in action. Without looking I can see him standing leaning on his shopping trolley. Let me take a moment to describe the embodiment of evil, the vision of vileness, the icon of idiocy, the lord of lethargy, the sack of shit that is, always has and will be, Mr Michael Donald. For your mind’s eye’s viewing pleasure picture this: a fat jowlly, ever sweaty head, bald with long yellowy white hair hanging around the sides. Tiny little piggy eyes buried amongst fat, crease and grease, stare out with a surprising sharpness through glasses as thick as the bottom of a jam jar. Some kind of growth sits on his forehead, big and brown with long wiry hairs sprouting from it like a squashed spider. His nose is bulbous to the point that it appears to have just exploded across his ruddy dry face. His mouth is a hatchway of halitosis; teeth like yellow-crusted stalactites hang down precariously as if about to splinter.
Forever is he to be seen in his knee-length navy blue raincoat, buttoned to the top to exaggerate or maybe even compliment his double chin which hangs like a saggy pink water balloon decorated with the odd speckling of egg yolk and phlegm.
He has the fragrance that most Perfumists would tear out their hair in their unsuccessful attempts to disguise. If you could just, after reading this part of course, imagine the strongest smell of sweat you can conjure up. Done it? Well add a large measure of Gorgonzola, a soupçon of urine, a wee dram of whisky, and put it all in a cocktail shaker with just a sprinkling of, dare I say it, semen. Yes semen! Put it all in the cocktail shaker and give it a good old shake, through it up in the air and spin on one foot 360 degrees if you’re really talented, and then take the lid off and inhale deeply. Sex on the beach? More like Sicks on the beach!
He looks like everyone’s impression of a child-molester.
But I have a confession. I am so deeply, deeply in love with him. He is the man of my dreams, whom I long to be with.
Ha! Not really, although he has cropped up in a few of my dreams unfortunately.

 I briefly look up and use every bit will power to magically transform my grimace in to a grin. Would he know the difference anyway?
Oscar-winning customer service coming up be sure not to miss it.
‘Good afternoon Mr Donald, how are you today?’ I could never get the hang of his surname, it didn’t sound right. I pick up his first item, always the same products, a chicken and mushroom Fray Bentos pie.
‘oh Elizabeth, it’s been awful!’ he says puffing and panting over me, white spittle forms at the corners of his mouth as he speaks to me.
I try to look concerned. What is it this time, bereavement? One of the other old bastards from the British Legion has smoked his last pipe? Or maybe a new ailment? My money is on the ailment. What’s giving you gip now Mr Donald?
‘Oh,’ he huffs, looking over his shoulder, quite feminine in his ways, ‘my feet have been giving me gip more than ever!’
Oh Jesus, the images in my head that this one sentence induces is amazing. I frown and say ‘oh dear’, as I scan the block of stilton.
The following two minutes I concentrate on the products of his purchase rather than listen to the intricate details of his latest problem, although like a pair of leaky wellington boots in a field of manure, some shit still gets through.
‘…their like pork scratchings!...’
A four pack of beans gets zapped; I try wondering what other of Heinz’s 57 varieties I can think of to stave the urge to be sick.
‘….and the smell!...’
Value white loaf goes past and finally the prunes. As I ring up the total I pray and hope he doesn’t decide to show me the disgusting trotters he calls feet. I don’t need to see them; i can already see them in my head and know that the real thing would be a thousand times worse. I don’t know how people in the healthcare profession can deal with clients like these. Surely when they unveil their syphilitic appendages they must dry heave at least?
‘That’ll be four pounds thirty seven please Mr Donald.’ I say with that oh so hard to achieve fake enthusiasm.
‘Four pounds thirty seven!’ he exclaims eyebrows arched, a look of horror upon his face. Here we go again with the pretend to be shocked at the price routine, in my head I roll my eyes heavenward.
Grumbling about the cost of things in his day and that he can’t afford to eat he fumbles in his warm pockets for a handful of change. Okay, three things, one: when exactly was his day? Two, if he couldn’t afford to eat why was he such a fat bastard? And C,[a little Bushism that I can’t resist] why doesn’t he ever have notes? I always have to pick out the correct money out of his clammy paw, trying to avoid the little clouds of god knows what and sweet wrappers.
I finally give him his receipt and after telling me the usual ‘you’re a marvellous girl’, and ‘a credit to society’ not to mention ‘ a beautiful young thing’ he leaves my till to the sound of tambourine crashes, trumpet toots and a choir of angels singing hosanna, strictly limited to my own personal mind space obviously.

The next customers are two young men, loud leery and stacking crate upon crate of beer upon the never-ending conveyor. One says something to the other, the first half is out of my earshot, the remainder of the sentence which quite coincidentally is the part with the filthy innuendo gets in through the wax ‘….giving her one any day, know what I mean?’
How many times have I heard the phrase ‘hey, check out the check-out girl!’
Oh the trials and tribulations of a check-out girl with such a physical disfigurement!

‘Roll up, roll up, six-pence to see The Freak! Right before your eyes! Never before appeared in front of a live audience! Marvel at the monstrosity!  Recoil at her rashes! Squeal at the scabs!’ the Ringmaster leads me in with a thick linked chain. I am somehow in the audience and on the stage. I wear a filthy cloth sack covering the most of my body, all you can see is my wrists and feet, the skin wrinkled and pale but covered with a network of red rashes. Two ragged eye holes are cut in just the wrong position for my eyes. I can see the crowd wide-eyed, waiting for me to be unleashed. The Ringmaster has piercing blue eyes with the darkest of eyelashes, his face is dirty and his black beard looks shiny with grease. His teeth are bad and his clothes are tattered but his red jacket is immaculate. He reaches to grab the sack above my head and yanks it off. The audience make verbal their disgust and disapproval. Wearing just a two piece bikini i pull the poses as instructed by me, basic beauty Paget poses. Hands on hips, left thigh slightly across and in front of right one, and smile smile smile. My skinny body is pale. A series of red blotches blossomed over my skin making the parts that weren’t red dry and wrinkly. My scalp was virtually bald, red and flaky with straw coloured hair sprouting out in tiny clumps. My face looks like that of someone forty years older, I have crows feet around my bulging eyes and enough lines on my face that if you threw a deck of playing cards at it at least half the pack would stick in the grooves.
‘Ladies and gentlemen!’ the Ringmaster shouts at the top of his voice, ‘I give you, Allergy-Girl!’
The crowd whistle, cheer and leer.
‘She’s allergic to chicken which makes her really plucked off when her friends go to KFC!’ Oh good one Mr Ringmaster. The audience encouragingly groan. ‘And they’ll be no chance she’ll ketchup with them anyway as even tomatoes cause blistering blotches all over her legs!’
The people laugh and how bad the Ringmaster’s puns are. I smile and blow kisses at them.
‘She’s even allergic to bananas.’ He whips out one of the yellow fruit and holds it in front of his mouth curved downwards like he is sad. ‘
However there’s no way she’s stupid, she didn’t come here on the last Banana Boat!’
I rub my hands over my eyes and make pretend crying noises.
‘The only eggs she can eat are Easter eggs; real ones get her skin cracking.’ He winks at the crowd and puts his hand to the side of his mouth in a conspiratorial manner, ‘and lads, be careful if you fancy your chances as she’s allergic to latex!’
Wolf whistles from some of the menfolk.
The Ringmaster spreads his arms wide and shouts at the top of his voice. ‘Let me hear it now, give it all you’ve got, for the one, the only Allergy-Girl!’
The crowd go wild, stamp their feet, a speeding missile is flung from the mass, small beige-coloured and oval. The egg explodes against my forehead and the yolk and white slide cold slime down my nose, over my mouth and drips onto my chest and into my cleavage.
My skin starts to crawl as if insects are moving beneath the surface and fat yellow blisters bubble up and seep toxic yellow smoke.
I open my mouth to scream but the egg yolk drops in and gloops down my throat.
The crowd watch on in horror as I scream silently and the Ringmaster uses his sleeve to wipe away the egg white off my chest and breasts. It makes it worse and my smouldering skin comes off with each wipe.
Everyone goes quiet when I stand stock still and my eyes pop in my head and my stomach implodes and ooze the colour of egg yolk seeps from my navel. I collapse to the floor in a hissing stinking pile.


Sorry it's been so long...
The first entry this year,wow a lot has changed in four months: more teeth,more hair,more words. You are coming up to your 1st birthday and you can stand almost without support,you can feed yourself better than i can,you can drink from sippy cups,you can tell us when you want your dummy 'nana,nana',you can sit up and boy are you verbal.
Your eczema's still a pain in the quiche and we've still not discovered if you've got an intolerance to milk. You are still the cutest and even though you've weed on me numerous times,shat on mummy,spat and sneezed food on me,made me question everything and rip my hair out by the chunks,made me cry when you were ill over xmas,all the fiery bad things are quenched and extinguished by just a laugh or a smile or you lifting your arms out to me. You stress me out but i couldn't be without you,just like your mummy:) I LOVE YOU XXX

Wow. Teething. Wow indeed. See,now you've got two of the pesky little white blighters and i would have happily pulled out six teeth (not my own)in exchange for the sleeplessness you,and we,have had to endure just for these to break through. But they are wonderous things oh yes. Soon,they say by you're first birthday possibly,you should have a full set. They are wonderful things but you must look after them! Brushing them,as achieving most personal hygiene requirements can be extremely tedious,however there are ways to overcome your boredom. One of my favourites is to get a tune in your head and try to brush along in time. Also i am partial to holding as much foamy toothpaste saliva in my mouth as i can before letting it dribble over my lips like i'm some kind of rabid pink ape. That's always funny. Make sure your toothbrush only goes in your mouth as daddy once put it in his eye and it was not an experience he'd like you to go through.
But teeth are good,limit sweeties and stay away from toffee and you'll have a gorgeous set of pearly whites when you're my age... Oh and don't whatever you do try and bite through things that human teeth really aren't made for: plastics,metals,Greggs sandwiches
Words cannot describe just how,now i know we aren't supposed to swear but,bloody effin shit-bollocky frightened you made us an hour ago!
Girl you coughing,spluttering going red like that was something i never wanna see again!
The ambulance seemed to take longer than you took to come out of mummy's tummy! And after they'd checked you out,you had the cheek,the sheer audacity to smirk and laugh at the paramedics! I mean i thought my sense of humour was sick.....
But as i said to them,i'd rather they come out here just to give you a cuddle than it be for anything else. And i know how you love those 999 programmes you watch in the morning,but i don't want you bloomin starring in one!
Don't,i repeat,DON'T bloody Well worry me like that again!!! I'm no spring chicken,i can't take that. You're my little Cherub and i NEED you! I love you! Xx
We are lazing in the bedroom at half 9 on a saturday night listening to The Cardigans. Temporarily suspended are my party-going saturday nights,but to be truthful I've never found it easier to stay in. I wonder how you'll be spending your saturday nights in a couple of decades...will you still be happy chilling with mummy and daddy listening to tunes by lamp-light? I hope so.
I was very Well impressed at your liking for jazz the other night,your face mesmerised by the different instruments you could hear as much as mine were. I wonder what music you'll like,whether you'll read books,if so what kind?
You're nearly six months old now,just a couple of weeks,and i can't believe it.
Your wicked sense of humour is moving at an alarming rate,the other day you laughed at a little girl falling out of a flowerpot she was having her picture taken in. Plus i love how you love the zombie game where i pretend to eat you. I love how you can lip-read only me,It's like we have our own secret language. You are truly beautiful.
You're starting to have your first proper foods now,they sound quite adventurous i hope that you always are prepared to try new and exciting things. Each day with you in my life is worth twice as much as the previous. You and mummy make me so warm and wanted. I spend my time thinking of what you'll look like as you grow up,i see little toddlers in the streets and wonder if you'll look like them,but you won't you'll look like you. I find myself fantasizing about you talking and taking you for walks but i'm in no rush to wish the time away. You are amazing Martha-Mai,my little baby girl,i love you to bits,i love your smiles and your laughs and the silly games we play.
Hey there Supergirl, wow you're like 4 months old today man! I can't believe how much you've grown,and how much time's flown. You're an amazing little lady and i do believe you've captured everyone that's met you's hearts. With that killer smile that you grace us with when you see fit and all these gurgles and giggles everyone goes over to the Marf side. Before you mornings were like the worst part of the day, yawning and refusing to get out of bed;and that's just you! But waking up to one of your smiles is more important(now this is serious stuff here)than a cup of tea first thing! Sitting with you on my lap talking about our day and all the things i hope you're gonna grow up to share with me and Mummy is better than any alcohol,drug,sex,spiritual enlightenment (dirty stuff that you will hopefullly never know about) There was an old singer who was about even BEFORE my time called Al Jolson who used to dress in black make-up and he sang a song about his mother called 'Mammy' where he sung he'd travel a million miles just for one of her smiles. Well i'd travel two million JUST to change your nappy! I fall in love with you with every breath you breathe,i want to count all the eyelashes on your eyes,tattoo your name on my heart. When you cry it breaks me and i'd do anything at all to put a smile on your face. You are my Queen Bee,my sweet cherub, my Miffy, my Marfy,Marfs,Marfo,Miffalo,my beautiful amazing miraculous Martha-Mai Dianna cash. It's no suprise you are my cherub,a baby angel,seeing as your mother is a angel in disguise(shhh,don't let on you know! ;)) I love you Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx 'Heaven,i'm in Heaven,and my heart beats so that i can hardly speak,and i seem to find the happiness i seek,when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek'

To my SuperGirl,
You can do so much for such a young age,they say you are way advanced for your age. Will you be able to say mine or Mummy's name by April? I detect a Child Prodigy alert. Looks like you got more than just my looks ;-]
But with my brains and MUmmy's brains and mine and MUmmy's combined sexiness, you are gonna be capable of saving or obliterating this planet!!!
However,SuperGirl, remember you roots and to save those from who you came from
I love you
25/05/2010 17:30pm

Oh my god! The day was so tedious and stressful. The pain and anguish of seeing the one i love in so much agony,high as a kite on gas and air,repeatedly stabbed and prodded with injections and speculums. Epidurals! Drips and wires coming from her wrists like some beautiful pink-haired marionette. And then the horror and fear when the doctor says Baby's heartbeat has dropped a little so a caesarian is called for. In a matter of minutes MY wife is whisked off into theatre,and she ain't going to see no Shakespeare! I wait and pace the floor in over-sized scrubs and await my call. The nurse comes out. 'Mr Cash,can you come in please?' I go in,people everywhere,masks,wires,monitors and the machines that go 'ping!' I sit to the side of Manda's head holding her hand and talk to her as the surgeons cut and pull our baby out of her. A tiny bluish bundle is shown to us briefly before It's whisked away and weighed and prepared like fruit. The elderly Indian doctor says 'It's a girl!' and a midwife with multi-coloured headgear with dragons on gives me something more amazing and priceless than anything I've ever been given. MY baby! Her little face screw up and screams at me and It's the most euphoric feeling I've ever experienced. I'm so happy i feel as though i must be watching it all on tv. It must be happening to some other person. But the seven point eight pounds of weight in my arms tells me otherwise. Welcome to the world Miss Martha Mai Diana Cash,It's good to meet you,good to have you hear. My daughter,my cherub. I swear to protect,love,and worship you for the rest of my life. Count all the pores on your tiny body and you still wouldn't get anywhere near the amount of kisses i want to give you. I LOVE YOU Xx