Sometimes newspaper stories leave me shaking my head in disbelief. This week’s horror tale of Met police officer David Carrick being a serial rapist is one of them.
Growing up, we were always taught that whenever you’re in trouble, the police will always be able to help.
Now women are scared of them.
In my childhood village, I was the only girl in a group of lads and we all used to steal a few apples - or as I saw it, we helped harvest apple trees. Our local police man would give us a look and say, ‘Don’t do that again or I’ll clip your ear - and I know all your dads’.
He was known to us, respected by us and looked out for us (he never did clip our ears). He was everyone’s friend, he was never far from our streets and he was rightfully trusted by us all.
What has happened to police now? Of course, one bad apple shouldn’t spoil the bunch. But horrendous stories make us all think twice.
When my young granddaughter Caitlin has a night out, my eldest son Jonathan and his wife Kim stay up until the small hours to pick her up in their car and she knows she must stay in a group. That’s what it’s come to. It seems no one, aside from close family and friends, can really be trusted.
And isn’t that sad?
Love Island's Tom is just my cup of tea
Anyone who expects me to purse my lips, clutch my (plastic) pearls and tut my disapproval at Love Island is utterly wrong. I love it and always have.
This season my addiction is stronger than ever. One of Robert’s Macclesfield players, Tom Clare, entered the villa as a bombshell.
Robert told me as soon as he met Tom, he said: “You look like Mr Love Island”. He’s a 6ft 5in good-looking hunk. And Rob says he’s a lovely lad.
Tom’s under contract with Macclesfield so when he asked if he could go on the show, Rob said he couldn’t deny him the opportunity to change his life and make big money.
But I have an important question for Rob: when he’s bringing Tom here to have a cup of tea with me?
I know exactly what to wear: a black strappy dress just like Maya Jama’s in the first episode. I’ll find it draughty so I’ll wear mine with thermal knickers that come right up to my belly button and a proper, full-cup bra. Accessorised with my fluffy slippers, Tom’s in for a treat!
Porn prank right up Robert's alley
I can’t have been the only one first gasping in shock, then doubling up with laughter at the rude noises coming from Gary Lineker’s commentary box during Liverpool’s FA Cup win over Wolves.
Seeing professionals like him and Alan Shearer struggle not to lose it on live TV was hilarious.
A prankster had taped a mobile phone playing sex noises behind Gary’s studio sofa. Just as I was enjoying a good old laugh, my face fell. Where was our Robert? This is exactly the type of thing he’d get up to.
Just as I was planning what I’d do to him, I remembered Macclesfield also had a game on that night so he was there.
If it wasn’t for the fixtures list telling me exactly where our Rob was, he’d have been my prime suspect.
My postie often takes my parcels back to the sorting office because I can’t get to the door in time and he thinks I’m not in.
Our Jonathan has done a grand job a driving to the post office to pick up my mail from you. Whereas Robbie was always a rascal, Jonathan is an angel.
But no one’s perfect. And Jonathan is such a Manchester United fanatic, I don’t call him for two days after they lose or I just get one word answers.
Choc hardest habit to quit
Giving up fags is still going well. I’m no longer Fag Ash Lil, standing at my window with a cuppa in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
Even I’m surprised I don’t have any cravings - maybe I wasn’t inhaling for 54 years?
Giving up chocolate is another story. Those cravings are never ending.
I had a beautifully wrapped gift from a reader called Cathy, who sent a box full of my favourite chocolates: Curly Wurly, Turkish Delight, dark and white chocolate Galaxy bars, Cadbury Buttons, Fry’s Chocolate Creme, Wispa: you name it, Cathy sent it.
Thinking logically, I should have shared it with my granddaughter and friends.
But I didn’t have a chance.
Hero Andy revived me
January is a tough month when everyone seems tired all the time - maybe more than ever after Covid. Perhaps the pandemic left us all a little less willing to venture out.
Watching Andy Murray win at the Australian Open was enough to jolt me out of my rut. I was up at 5am to watch him and was hysterical as I celebrated every point he won.
I knew just what Judi Murray felt as she watched her brave lad from the stands and am sure I was just as elated.
Andy has fought back from major surgery and the inevitable confidence dip. That makes me love him even more.
Madness to turn Bruce loose
Radio 2 is letting veteran DJ Ken Bruce go. They must be mad.
Ken is 71 and Radio 2 has a reputation for getting rid of DJs it believes are too old.
Bloody hell fire, what’s the matter with people? Age is just a number. And when we older folk do something we’re good at, we become absolute experts. We are never past it. Our skills, honed over decades before fancy gadgets were around to make everything easier, are never not needed. No one of any age should feel we’re finished.
It makes me cross. Life begins at 70.
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