Tuesday, 2 February 2016

Bearing My Privates In Public

My mother has, once again, rudely invited herself on said outing. I really need to try and make sure that I avoid telling her my plans in the future. I do however have a slight method behind my madness: that is, if she is going to buy things for baby and me, then it is best that I am with her, thus avoiding a repeat of the nursery and doily disaster.
Later on
Jesus, Mary, Joseph and the Jacksons!
My life can never get any worse and then it does.
Once again the woman lectured me all morning on the importance of finding a suitable mate and how it was too late for me now.
‘What a lovely thing to say to your one and only daughter mother I would.......’ I turned around to shame her face to face but she had disappeared.
I looked around, couldn’t see her. A wicked thought flashed through my mind: ‘What if she is dead?’ and I fist punched the air. Horrified, once again, at my horrible hormones I slapped myself on the hand and then I spotted her and stroked my hand better – the fist pump resumed.
The woman was only stood chatting away to Flannigan and Tabatha and they were all laughing! At my expense no doubt. I didn’t know what the hell to do so I just left. I ran out of Harvey Nichols’s practically spitting blood as my mother stroked Tabatha’s ginger skinned gut and I headed for the escalator.
I stepped on to the escalator spitting venom. How could the psycho even begin to think that this was acceptable behaviour? She had gone way over the line this time.
And then, as if this situation could not possibly get any worse, it did; of course it did.
I was drooling down the escalator wishing my mother was dead when the worst thing that could ever happen to anybody happened to me and I wished that I was dead too.
As I was approaching the foot of the moving staircase, I saw with horror that the eager teeth of the escalator were starting to devour my skirt, ‘oh no!’
I pulled and pulled and I pleaded with this mechanical dragon to give me a break but it clung on like I was trying to cling onto my sanity, that very same sanity that Flannigan stole from me way back in January.
It was no use. The more I tried to yank my boho skirt out from the aggressive fangs of these steel teeth the more it gobbled it up.

As it gnarled at the fringe of my hippy hem, I quickly came to the horrifying conclusion that the only item of clothing that now fit me was about to be dragged from my body and there was sod all I could do about it.
My body immediately reverted to its primitive survival mode state (fight or flight and let’s face it I couldn’t exactly take flight....only thing was I couldn’t fight this either, I was losing, skirt down) as my hands tugged frantically at the cheesecloth. I had no choice but to beg for mercy as the skirt was literally sucked from my hips to reveal my bare arse just as the escalator safety system kicked in and came to an emergency stop, as did my skirt which was now resting just above my knees, the only place was down – a fitting analogy for my dreadful life.
Mortified I dropped vertically to my knees and pulled the skirt up as far as I could, at least my pubic area was covered now, I had a builders bum going on but, well.....small mercies and all that.
I desperately yanked on my skirt and begged the lord above to end this horror and to stop the world of Yorkshire and its inhabitants from seeing my rear end again but alas I realised that that this bastard in the clouds had so much more in store for my sorry ass.
In the world of Jenna the only persons to stop and help me were a group of teenage girls. The older people just sniggered at me. Some twat took a picture on their smart phone and all I could do, as I had already assumed the prayer position, was beseech the lord to not let this appear on social media sites globally and wait until somebody came to my aid.
‘Jenna what are you doing down there?’ The involuntary knee jerk reaction of physical bodily attention when my mother speaks kicked in and I literally stood to attention not thinking, ‘and where is your underwear?!!! Honestly Jenna the things you do to get attention.’
My mother spoke as if I had done this to myself on purpose as she rolled her eyes at me towards Tabatha and my bastard ex who were just stood glaring at me and my privates as the whole of Harvey Nic’s and its staff began to form a tight circle around me – it was not a protective, shielding circle, more a circus freak show. For me it was dehumanizing at best and I had no choice other than to just smile at the crowd but at no one in particular like this was how I spent a regular Sunday.
I considered asking someone from the audience to pass me a hat from over by the fascinators so that I could at least collect money for my show but the dissociation prevented me from being fully in the present moment.
Around 10pm
Well I was eventually cut free. Not by the fire brigade but by a woman named Mavis from the curtain department.
I am still fuming with my mother who left me to go grab herself a quick alcoholic beverage because I was going nowhere fast!

Tuesday, 13 October 2015

Second edition of Jenna Jaghe is well on it's way.

And you thought she couldn't embarrass herself as much as she did in the first book!
Get the first edition here:

Monday, 12 October 2015

How To Get Over A Cheat With Dignity

What's better than a comedy about an unhinged woman kidnapping a man with dementia, bestiality, friends, family and the tribulations of relationships? A book about all of those things set in Yorkshire of course! Follow Jenna Jaghe as she attempts to move on from a man who has left her for a woman with terrible helmet hair.

Sunday, 11 October 2015

A Reyt Yorkshire Lass!

What's better than a comedy about an unhinged woman kidnapping a man with dementia, bestiality, friends, family and the tribulations of relationships? A book about all of those things set in Yorkshire of course!

Wednesday, 22 April 2015

The Unconventional Life of Jenna Jaghe

One single bridal shop owner, a narcissistic lover, a friend with a catatonic mother and Horrid Harriet. Follow Jenna Jaghe in her daily struggle to find a little sanity amongst the catastrophe that has become her life.

Tuesday, 13 January 2015

My Only Ever First Blind Date

Date 1

The Frotteur cum Swinger

*All names have been changed and any connection made is purely coincidental*

Arranged to meet Harvey in a pub in the town centre. I rushed because I thought that I was going to be late. No need to worry however as he was 15 minutes late but at least he had the decency to text me to let me know of his tardiness. I ventured inside the pub (because it was bloody freezing) alone and windswept and looking like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards and ordered myself a Pinot. I briefly considered getting him a pint but then didn't bother - good job because he was enduring Dry January. I sipped my glass of wine before accidentally knocking it over when he told me, within the first 10 minutes, that his last date had dragged him to a swinger’s club and stripped down to her bra and pants! Was he hoping that I would do this too?

He clearly was. "I will leave you with that thought," he said as he scooted off to the bar to replace my wine. He returned with a small glass and I thought I can't date a man who thinks it is acceptable to buy me a tiny alcoholic beverage. And then he carried on. He was getting aroused (excited not hard....actually....) He spoke of deviant ways and I squirmed and not in a good way. He was clearly testing the water.

And then the cheeky twat reached over and grabbed my bum!

After my immediate dissociation passed (coping mechanism) I bicep punched him and thought never again. This bloke did not need Dutch courage and I dread to think how forward he would have been had I bought him that pint. Would he have tried to mount me?

Not only had this guy, not so subtly, suggested that I shimmy through that swinging door a few streets down (where women were honoured with free entry but men had to pay £25) but he had also touched an intimate part of me and I don’t mean my heart.

What scared me more than any of his aberrant ways though was when I punched him and thought, yum, yum, what lovely, firm muscles you have. At this point I realised that I am still not ready to date. My future choice of man can in no way be influenced by the old me (the part that I thought I had banished) and all that she would have deemed acceptable, fooling herself into believing that it was endearment.

Bottom line the jerk felt me up. He was a frotteur and that is actually illegal. I could go as far to say that it was sexual abuse, I certainly didn't consent to having my bottom groped but I won’t because he could have me for assault and I will probably get all kinds of death threats via trolls and pissed off men thinking I am a radical feminist.

So needless to say this date is definitely going down as a loss and puts my score at -1. Great start!

Downside: My love for this charming City has been ruined with the thoughts of every other door being a swinging one.

Upside: If I change my mind on the above I now have the address.

*FYI I am in no way suggesting that I am all that and were he to write about me he would no doubt have written how frigid and stuck up I am and how after he asked me my opinion of sex clubs I looked at him like he had shit on my great grandmother and had sat with my arms tightly hugging myself for the duration (when I clearly should have been protecting my behind.) However he did text me afterwards asking;

‘What now?’

‘What do you want?’

And as if the caressing cruiser had not left enough of a sleazy impression.

‘A cheeky pic would be nice!’

My reply.

‘You have just lost my respect!’

Hopefully he has got the message and will lose my number too.

Onwards and upwards.

Date 2............

Link to my book The Unconventional Life of Jenna Jaghe: