An illustrated metaphor for my life involving a bandana. Not a banana. Although that also works. 

See this pic?

Well if you look closely – if you’re not blinded by my teeth that look like they could eat a tomato through a tennis racquet – you’ll see that Rachael (the child lying horizontally) is wearing a red bandana. This bandana was purchased on the day this picture was taken which was oh about twenty five years ago. (The other two people are my sister in law Brenda and my brother William if you must know – but they’re peripheral to the story, although interestingly now live in Holland, land of the Dutch, which reminds me of the day William and I went to visit the mother in the care home or “Grantanamo” as Brenda wrly observed, and we were trying to jog mother’s memory as to who William was by singing a song she used to sing when William and Brenda first departed for Holland – the last line being:

she’s down in the meadow, milking a cow” 

but mother joined in instead with:

“she’s down in the meadow, fisting a cow”). 

Ahem.

The bandana was purchased in a shop in Oban and was an expensive wee purchase at the time, as I recall. It’s an OshKosh B’Gosh (that was an arsehole of a thing to type) bandana. I know it was purchased twenty five years ago because the horizontal child is now 28 and, for the most part, vertical. The bandana has survived the years and been worn on various body parts, but mostly on my own head, to either conceal manky hair or to complement a particular hairdo. (It’s also been worn tied round my neck at a jaunty angle, air hostess style, to annoy Kate Cameron, but she wears cropped trousers on holiday so quid pro quo, Clarice, as Hannibal would say).

Today, ye olde bandana was tied round my head as a headbandy thing to conceal my manky hair which had assembled itself into two “horns” atop my head, resembling a Valkyrie, thus:

(Manky keeps autocorrecting to manly which makes me lol…mmmmm manly hair…). I’d forgotten I was wearing it when I took Tucker for his evening lamppost sniffing outing. The wind took my breath away (the actual wind, not Tucker’s bum toots although they’d strip paint off walls the day after he’s been eating buried treasure he’s dug up from the garden) and with it, at some stage in our half hour parish inspection, the bandana, apparently, I realised as I arrived home sans bandana.

I had my tea on the go so was rightly concerned about the timing of my baked potato, which left me conflicted: a) should I climb back in to the hottest coat in the world and its accompanying dodgy zip which gets stuck at inopportune moments eg airport security which then leaves me sweating like drug mule Billy Hayes in Midnight Express and go search for the bandana or

b) oh what the blow it’s only a thing. The universe giveth and the universe taketh away. The universe is a shit.

Settling on option b above, I climbed back in to the drug mule coat, ensured I was appropriately shod for the skating rink pavements once again (you can’t be too careful at my age, osteoporis is just around the bloody corner), and skittered back down the icy drive (without dog – I was too crabbit by this point) to begin the search for the fucking bandana.

Against the howling, biting wind, I skittered back up Glasgow Street to the Goldie Park (I vary my route, so any weirdo stalkers reading this who think they’ll find me doon the Goldie Park of a dark evening can piss off – you’ll find me down the boathouse, where it’s even darker and scarier, with rapists round every corner, if you’re interested) encountering only a woman with two big dogs in a leopard print dressing gown, possibly from Primark, who eyed me suspiciously – the cheek of it! – as I wandered back over Tucker’s pawprints in the snow in the middle of a dark field;

“You awright doll?” she enquired…

“Aye fine thanks!” I replied, needlessly further explaining “my bandana flew off my head earlier, I’m just looking for it. I’ve had it a long time, it’s been all over the world with me” I doubt she needed my life story, but at best it’ll have given her something to tell the weans on her return from her walk in a dressing gown.

Guess what? I found the bandana. I bloody kissed it, which on reflection was stupid because the two big dogs belonging to the be-dressing gowned woman had probably pissed on it. Well, I’ve never died a winter yet.

I like to think that all of this is potentially a metaphor for my life, surely? Something about having things for years, loving them but taking them for granted, losing them, being sad, looking for them, finding them and probably taking them for granted again?  Oh I don’t know. It felt like a good metaphor when I started writing it.

That time I was a nun. 

Obviously it’s sad and everything that Geraldine McEwan’s dead but it does afford me yet another opportunity to mention my acting role along side her in the Magdalene Sisters. (Is alongside one word or two?). I say “acting” role but it was more of an “eating” role as I was made to eat an actual sausage while sat beside her at an actual dining table in an actual Convent. I’ve no idea why I was chosen for this scene. Perhaps I looked like I was no stranger to a sausage? “Fetch that weird looking fat nun for this scene – she looks like she knows her way round a sausage”. And lo it came to pass. I’d never acted before and didn’t know if I should ham it up or be believable or what the hell I should do but I found myself ashen with fear beside the great Geraldine McEwan with a knife and fork in my hand in full nun’s habit. In between takes (numerous retakes were my fault – in one I got the handle of my sausage knife caught in the sleeve of my habit in my haste to get at my sausage after they shouted action and the knife clanged loudly on the table) Ms McEwan turned to me and enquired in her Jean Brodie voice: “And what do you do for a living?” 

I mumbled “I’m in I.T.” 

I wasn’t. I don’t know why I said that. I worked in the library. It’s like that time I was in the roll shop at lunchtime and I ordered a chicken salad roll and on being asked if I wanted mayonnaise on it I snapped “Ewwww no I hate mayonnaise”. I don’t hate mayonnaise. I quite like it. Why I lied about it I’ll never know. I’m a pathological liar. It’s possibly another symptom of my social awkwardness. Anyway, Geraldine simply pursed her lips and turned away, like she somehow KNEW I was lying and wanted to spare me the shame of being caught out. I’ll never forget her kindness. 

If you want to catch me and my LYING FACE in the Magdalene Sisters I’m to the left of Geraldine McEwan in the dining room scene. All my other scenes were left on the cutting room floor, not that I was in that many – they could never find me – I spent most of the time smoking in corners and cackling with the other extras.

Saturday and I hope the window cleaner isn’t judging me by the state of my bedroom.

It’s been a busy old week. No time for blogging, it seems. Having fought the week-long urge to apply nail polish remover to aforementioned itchy tattoo; I managed to bumble along and survive the week relatively unscathed and  unrumbled as the incompetent buffoon that I am (well it’s more of a galumph in these new shoes really. They really are my most favourite shoes ever in the history of my well documented profligacy and I’ve worn them with everything since purchase two weeks ago. They’ve done nothing for my hypochondria though – I’m convinced they’ve given me thrombosis due to the effect they’ve had on the way I walk). But I digress, as per usual. I’ve survived another week without being rumbled. Unless my colleagues have all been talking about me behind my back saying how useless I am, and they only let me stay on as court jester and object of ridicule) It’s my imposter syndrome,  see. The imposter syndrome is strong with this one. On Monday, the relative safety of the weekend seemed like a galaxy far, far away (two Star Wars references in one paragraph – BOOM.  That’s a personal best) and there appeared to be many hurdles to be umm…hurdled before I got there, including a social occasion (number four on my Facebook list of seven things you didn’t know about me; I can be very socially awkward). And yet here we are. Saturday. You sexy big bastard.

I’ve been doing a bit of navel gazing – or I would if I could find it under the comfort waistband of these leggings – and have decided I’m a natural pessimist. I fake positivity every day. Ask me to define success and the best I can come up with is “making it through each day and still being alive at the end of it”. I’m a miserable git. In an attempt to redress this, I’m pathetically trying to do a good deed a day. Yesterday’s was organ donation. I didn’t literally donate one – I’m kinda still using them all, although as mentioned in previous post,  they could have my vagina for all the good it’s doing me (earlier blog refers – it’s been a while since I said vagina hasn’t it? Rachael! Hannah! Mummy’s at the vagina word again! Always with the vagina!) I was exiting Morrison’s after negotiating its bakery aisle of temptation and noticed the usual goody two shoes charity collectors at the door. I somehow failed to avoid their gaze and next thing I knew I’d signed up for organ donation. I thought I might’ve got a free pen or something or a packet of Marlboro Lites so they could hasten my demise in an effort to get at my lungs but nothing was forthcoming in the ‘free gift at signup’ department. Before signing they did ask if there was anything I didn’t want to donate. Why would I? I’ll be dead, hopefully, before they start harvesting any. And I’m not planning on a Tutankhamen style burial  – with my bits and bobs decanted into canopic jars for use in the afterlife. Take what you want and put the rest on Gumtree for all I’ll bloody care. Just make sure it’s not a local funeral company – I sat beside the owner of one of the local undertakers in Higher History at Dumfries Academy and I’d like him to remember me as the perky sixteen year old I was back then thank you very much. 

Regular readers will be interested to hear that I’m still struggling with the eastern v western bedlands thing. If you’re not a regular blog reader, why the hell are you not? I’ve blog stats to obsess over. Those stats won’t obsess over themselves ye ken. So yes I moved my bedside drawers (and the treasures that lie within its pink shabby chic’d drawers including KitKat wrappers, kirby grips, a bone Tucker insisted on bringing into bed and an assortment of unread improving books)  over to the other side of the bed and I feel kinda committed to it now. It’s certainly more commitment than I ever gave to any relationship. I moved it for some weird reason involving the BT Shitty Telly subscription and the router broadband nonsense blah blah bloody bloody blah snore snore and it’s too much of an effort to shlep it back again so I’m fighting on to try and acclimatise myself to the western bedlands. The phone charger is presenting a problem as it won’t stretch from the socket to my comfy spot of the bed which isn’t conducive to a good kip because it sends me apoplectic with rage. And don’t start with your helpful bedtime tips like no gadgets in the bedroom thank you very much. I have no interest in your opinions. 

My grammar is probably shit in this post, with brackets open and unclosed all over the bloody shop, and i’m usually all judgy judgy about everybody else’s grammar but I’ve a chicken in the oven and the window cleaner is working his way round the house and I’m trying to finish this before he gets to my bedroom.

Skanky nail polish and Kelpie chat. 

I started writing this on Saturday morning and the quiet weekend ended up being not very quiet after all. I’m not changing it, so you’ll just have to suspend disbelief and read it. Accept it for what it is, as it were. I’m sure you’ve better things to be doing on a Sunday evening anyway.

A quiet weekend is being enjoyed.  Aside from painting my nails  and Whatsapping pictures of results to Ash (the undisputed muthafuckin’ QUEEN of nail painting) for one of her no-nonsense critiques, the latest being “hahaha Christ Did Tucker paint them for you?”, I’m not doing much else. I had half planned a trip to see the Kelpies which fell through. I’m desperate to see them but have stubbornly refused to, unless it’s with someone I’m romantically involved with because for some weird reason I yearn to be kissed under the Kelpies. Christ they’ll have either rusted or become a seagull colony before that’s likely to happen so I may have to compromise and take myself to see the bastarding Kelpies since no other bugger is battering down my door to take me. Not keen to go in my own vehicle because the top boot keeps popping open at inappropriate moments which would be hilarious if it wasn’t, you know, scary and ultimately life threateningly dangerous.

Fast forward to 5pm Saturday: It was at this point that I decided to accompany number two daughter to Glasgow, so the quiet weekend that was being enjoyed ended up being not so quiet after all. Oh yes I’m all about the spontaneity, me. I can just pop off to Glasgow on a whim. A toothbrush, clean pants and away I go. (Anybody who knows me knows that this is a lie. I’m so weird I have to see how I feel on the day which then determines whether I commit to going anywhere, even arguably important things like weddings. I could wake up and think “Nuh. This isn’t a good day for socialising” and pull the metaphorical duvet over my head, turning my metaphorical cat’s arse face to the wall) 

So off to Glasgow I went, and this morning paid a visit to that temple of quasi middle class worship – Whole Foods in Giffnock. Full to the gunnels with healthy juices and quinoa, shelves groaning with weird breads made with flour hand-milled by Peruvian grannies or some such nonsense and that’ll be fifty of your British pounds a slice thank you very much. I noticed the abundance of well…water really.  Water in various flavours and colours costing upwards of three quid a bottle. We’re all mental! 

A propos of nothing at all, as my mother used to say, when she still had her marbles in the days before she started lobbing presumably worn pop socks out of her bathroom window to the bemusement of passers-by below, I’m calling bullshit on water (and the constant pressure to drink it), protein shakes and pouting. You can’t open your mouth to complain about your health these days without some brown rice and sandals wearing smartarse whining “Are you drinking enough water?” while looking pityingly at your cankles. And protein shakes? Shit. Off. Just shit off. No need. There’s so much protein in the shops they’re bloody selling it in many different forms. What a miserable bloody existence! Oh purleeaaase. BORRRRINNNNG!

I must stop soon. I’m getting ranty. 

But before I go… as friends and family and everyotherbugger will know, I’ve had a bit of a flirt with tattoos these past few months. The latest one which was finished last Wednesday is at a horrible itchy stage with bits falling off it and it’s driving me nuts and inducing all manner of intrusive thoughts. I know it’s not just me who gets intrusive thoughts eg “What would happen if I licked this dishwasher tablet? Will it taste fizzy?” (They don’t – I tried it). I’ve a friend who shall remain nameless because her intrusive thoughts are so hilariously batshit crazy she’d be carted off in a straitjacket if her thoughts were to be made public but she sure as shit makes me feel that I’m relatively sane. So the itchy healing tattoo is sending me so doolally I had an intrusive thought this morning whilst removing my skanky chipped nail polish (from yesterday) that it would be a fun thing to put nail polish remover on the itchy tattoo. That’d certainly give it something to think about. Then I thought I might give it a good going over with an Emery board. I didn’t do it, but thought I might. I once had an ulcer on my eye (due to slutty contact lens hygiene) that I had to use eye drops for several weeks and every time I went to put the eye drops in I’d think “it’d be funny if I picked up the wrong bottle and put nail glue in my eye instead of eye drops. Are you laughing. No? I know. it’s not even funny, is it? It’s actually slightly worrying that people like me have the right to vote. 

Oh wait –  I forgot to rant about pouting.  Enough with the pouting already. In the name of fuckery stop. With. The. Pouting. Just smile. We used to do that in the olden days and if it was good enough for us then, it’s good enough for you now, missy. 

3am bonus post: 7 or 9 things you didn’t know about me. 

That crazy meme is doing the rounds. Here are 7 (or 9) things you didn’t know about me:

1) I just trapped Tucker’s paws in the door during a 3am stagger to the bog. He’s totally overreacting now and is licking his paws dramatically. 

2) I ate three tubes of Smarties last night and I’m not even sorry. 

3) Yer maw. 

4) I’m a committed social media stalker and should be hired by the CIA for my resourcefulness. I will look for you; I will find you; and I will stalk you. 

5) I’m probably looking at your pictures right now. 

6) I have no idea how to use colons and semi-colons. I look it up, think I’ve got it, then forget again. 

7) As an experiment I slept on the other side of the bed last night and woke up at 3am all disorientated and thought I’d been a) kidnapped or b) got verrrry drunk last night and had a happy ending with a stranger. 

8) I sometimes wonder why I’m single then I remember. 

9) Tucker’s STILL licking his paws. Drama queen. 

10) I could murder a cup of tea. 

Title? Oh I don’t know. Friday?

People (one person) often ask if this blog has a theme. Haha! Eh naw. There can be various threads and intertwining themes in one post, of which this is a prime example. Read on, and marvel at the clever seamless segueing from one theme to another. Actually that’s a lie; it’s more of a CLANNNGGG than a segue.

Theme 1)  My hypochondria continues apace. Tonight I’m suffering from pre-weekend fatigue syndrome. Or, to give it its proper catchy title – PWFS. I’m knackered. I’ve huffed and puffed the whole day. This is partly due to a) a long day yesterday and being too wired to sleep and b) pinging awake at 4am and watching Wolf Hall on the iPlayer but falling asleep ten minutes in to Cardinal Wolsey et al and waking up again at 730 with a face like a hen’s arse. At least it wasn’t a hair washing day with its associated drying, brushing and tuggy nonsense. 

Theme 2) I thought I might try sleeping on the other side of the bed tonight. I’m lying there now, clinging onto the side of the bed like a mountain goat. (THEME 3 COMING UP) I’ve no idea why I do that; but I huddle up on three inches of bed as if there’s a war on, to paraphrase McNabb (workhusband, nephew of a FAMOUS ACTOR AHEM, workshy fop, Aga owner (but doesn’t like to talk about it – fucking MUCH), dandy, witty raconteur, bonvivant, fellow spendthrift, pronouncer of doughnuts as “duffnuts” and fetcher-down and putter-up of heavy boxes as required. (I’ll never get these brackets closed – god knows why I opened them – I might just leave them open and see if anybody notices. 

(THIS MIGHT BE ANOTHER THEME COMING UP BUT NOT SURE) On the subject of McNabb (yes that’s his first name oh look more fucking brackets) we did a manual handling course a while back which we took Very Seriously Indeed. So much so that when we each had to demonstrate that we’d learned the correct procedure for lifting boxes and putting them down again; McNabb, on observing a colleague’s lifting technique and being asked for his opinion on her lifting, ventured “Oh I don’t know; I just didn’t BELIEVE her. I didn’t feel like she was really “owning” that box” like it was an am-dram performance. This made me giggle. When it was my turn to demonstrate my lifting technique I declined and explained that if a box needed lifting or moved in the office I’d simply holler “MCNABB! GONNAE FETCH US THAT BOX OFF THE TOP AY THAT CUPBOARD?”  (I’M ABOUT TO INTRODUCE ANOTHER THEME I THINK) That’s not acceptable in this day and age apparently. Political correctness gone mad! I hate humphing stuff. It’s the most crabbit inducing thing in the world, in my opinion. (POSSIBLE HEALTH RELATED THEME AHOY) Plus I’ve got asthma. I need a puff of my inhaler before I can even THINK about smoking a fag for chrissake. 

(FINAL THEME) I’d forgotten how enjoyable Smarties were. Just had a tube. I miss the Smartie tubes with the lids that popped off if you squeezed them. I’m sure a few Sixties born children are walking around now with an eye missing as a result of the over-zealous squeezing and subsequent misfiring of a wayward Smartie tube lid. 

Do I need to close any brackets? Oh here’s yer bloody bracket ) now pipe down and let’s all get some kip. 

Barrel scrapings. 

Don’t bother reading this. It reeks of desperation and barrel scraping. Not much to report today. Busy day in gainful employment so let’s all thank The Lord Harry for that, as an ex mother-in-law was wont to say, which made my eyeballs swivel all the way to the back of my head in crabbitness. 

Had my evening stroll round the parish with Tucker, pausing only to sniff particularly sexy lampposts and do tiny bits of widdle (him not me) and a traumatic incident for both of us involving my having to pull bits of sparkly stringy poop out of his butt following an earlier hat pompom eating incident. Oh and let us not forget his new hobby – growling and barking like a loon at people in mobility scooters and boys of a certain age in hats who look unemployed. He’s bordering on UKIP. He’s a doggy Nigel Farage, only with added sparkly butt poop. 

Oh wait! I have news! Remember the clusterfuck of life admin lurking in the hall cupboard in the Tesco carrier bag for life? Well…I took it out of the cupboard today! And I actually plugged in the house phone and phoned BT! About the shitty BT telly! I phoned to cancel it and guess what? They wouldn’t let me. They just kinda made it sound like everything including the Boer war whatever that is is my fault and I felt obliged to keep it. I’ve only been building up to that phone call for six months. What threw me was that when I was talking on the phone and guddling at the back of the telly I had to put the house phone on loudspeaker then couldn’t get it off again so we were bellowing awkwardly at each other with me spelling out my postcode “IT’S DEE FOR DAVID GEE FOR GEORGE TWO FOR EHHH TWO…NO NO DEE FOR DAVID GEE FOR GEO…NO…DEE…DEE…DEEEEEE”

I never watch the feckin’ telly. I think it’s because it’s too far away from where my eyes are. God knows why I’ve agreed to keep the shitty thing but there we have it. I need to be more assertive but I’m too much of a people pleaser. Here’s a cake! Like me! Tell me you love me! 

Haven’t said vagina once in this post. 

Oh. 

The one in which I don’t say vagina but I say robot a couple of times.

I hereby promise not to mention vagina in this post (except for that time just then oh and the title). I won’t mention either my own vagina or anybody else’s vagina. This is a vagina free zone.  Some people get antsy about the word vagina. Some people have vaginas. Some people have opinions, but as my granny used to say, while she umm…spun wool, or worked the fields, or whatever they did in the olden days when they didn’t have internet to eat up their lives, opinions are like arseholes, everybody’s got one. Unlike vaginas. Only some of us have them. Anyway, that’s definitely the last you’ll hear of vaginas. (Rachael! Hannah! Mummy’s said vagina again! How funny is mummy! Hello? Helloooooooooo?)

Christ alive I woke up in a shitty mood this morning.

Much like the British weather, my moods can flippety-flop between “Doris Day ray of sunshine” to “stabby and murderous” upwards of twenty times a day. I’d like to say this is a recent hormonal, age related development; but I’d be lying. I’ve always been a crabbit hoor – or to use my preferred nomenclature and because it makes me sound a bit bohemian and windswept – mercurial.

You know the Beaufort Scale for winds? I’m patenting the Beaufort scale of moods. The Tigerbaps’ Mood Scale. That’s a working title. I’m busy working on a fancypants visual representation of Tigerbaps’ Scale of Moods. Think ‘Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs’ but in tabular format and with words like arse in it. I thought it’d take me five minutes but in my usual manner I’ve totally overcomplicated it and it’ll never actually get done because I’m over it already and it’s stopped being funny in my head take me a good couple of days to fine tune. It’s got columns, rows, cross-referencing and everybloodything.  Haven’t thought up a catchy name for it yet – probably because I’m off the scale today for no apparent reason except I woke up remembering the clusterfuck of life admin lying in a Tesco Bag for Life in the hall cupboard and the horrors that lurk within, including:

  1. Phoning BT to cancel shitty YouView telly thing which I’ve never managed to master and it just makes me crabbit and adds no value to my life whatsoever unlike mushrooms fried in butter or gnawing on blocks of cheese straight from the fridge which add all the value my life needs thank you very much, oh yes sirree bob.
  2. Checking the date Tucker’s booster jags are due even though I know fine well they were due in September 2014 but it’s too much of a faff to take him to vet which is only open at really shittily inconvenient times like 5.30pm I mean WHO CAN GO TO THE VET AT 5.30PM IT’S RIDICULOUS. Ain’t nobody got time for that.

I’m totally in support of this whole development of drone things and its applications. I need artificial intelligence in my life. I need a houserobot I can boss around and delegate tasks to eg the clusterfuck of life admin in the Tesco Carrier Bag for Life. I don’t want a houserobot that looks like that Honda Asimo freakydeaky one that can climb stairs and that though.  Imagine that coming at you all keen looking with its wee backpack on and a glint in its eye? OOFT! I’d run a bloody mile, and that’s quite an achievement for a basic pleasure model like myself.

Neither do I want one like the Lost in Space one with its tumble dryer hose arms that pops up to be ‘helpful’ at inconvenient times like when you just wake up and you scream (I’m a screamer so I’d definitely scream) and throw shoes at it shouting “JESUS STOP DOING THAT.  GO AND STAND IN A CUPBOARD OR SOMETHING. GIVING ME A BLOODY HEART ATTACK WITH YOUR WEIRD ARMS THAT YOU CAN’T EVEN BEND PROPERLY”

Sorry for abruptness of the ending of this post, but oh look at the time, I’ve just remembered there are seven Opal Fruits in the kitchen from last night got life admin I really must get done tonight.

 

 

Fauxfee and free-climbing.

It doesn’t take much to ruin my day. Yesterday, in my quest to shop local, I thought I’d patronise a local independent takeaway and purchase a cappuccino. I can only ever order cappuccino in the mornings, ever mindful that in Italy I’d be scorned for ordering such a thing at any other time of the day. Cappuccino is a breakfast drink. I sneer at cappuccino orderers who disobey this rule. On a first date this would be a dealbreaker. What a turnoff! Cappuccino at 6pm! Imagine! (Other dealbreakers include crossing roads without holding my hand, brown shoes, double denim, pleather, the use of “lol” in texts and erroneous usage of your and you’re) 

 

Restricting my cappuccino ordering to pre-noon is arguably the only thing in my life I’m actually arsed about. I adopt a ‘laissez faire’ attitude to everything else in my life, where chaos reigns supreme. 

I’m very arsed about coffee (I like my coffee like I like my men, hot, strong and nowhere near my vagina)  (Hey Rachael and Hannah – mummy’s mentioned vagina again!) Anyway I digress – I ordered the cappuccino without first checking out the coffee making credentials of the establishment– turns out it was a machine with a button marked with the various permutations of coffee; latte, black, cappuccino and so on and so forth. That’s not real coffee – that’s faux coffee; fauxfee if you will. Day = ruined. Yes, that’s all it takes. Perfection can be a cruel mistress, sometimes. 

 

Turning to other events, in my continuing efforts to get someone to take me up the Kelpies, (oh that’s disgusting, stop thinking that) I had a bit of a date last night. Hard to read how it went. I suspect that’s another one I’ve scared off. I did arrive in a blur of hair, tits and teeth having come straight from an incident involving a car park and a locked gate. With me on the wrong side of it. In the dark. And gale force winds and lashing rain. In the tiniest car in the world. I could probably have just lifted the car over the gates to be fair, preferring instead to gesticulate wildly at the car behind me to no avail. All the gate plittering left me running late and without time to get petrol so  drove to agreed rendezvous point for aforementioned date on fumes. This isn’t really unusual. I enjoy a game of petrol chicken. Sharpens the mind. Date went as well as can be expected, although I did glance down at one point and noticed a semi-circle of raw red onion lying proudly atop my partially exposed left breast. I hadn’t been eating onion so it’s all a bit of a mystery but I styled it out and ate it anyway. Waste not, want not. 

Have a good weekend.

PS – Been watching the news. I know! Get me! All current affairs-y! These dudes who free-climbed El Capitan. I could free-climb El Capitan. I wouldn’t expect a global bloody fanfare. I’ve actually been to Yosemite with my friend Jane. It really is quite awe-inspiring. At one with nature and all that. We arrived at Yosemite and the tour guide attempted to get us to shlep for miles, but I declined, preferring instead to smoke a celebratory fag. You can take the girl out of Lincluden…

My Day On A Plate. 

Wake up around 7am. (Unless weekend when it’s 7pm). Consider oven chips with fried egg for breakfast. Realise that’s ludicrous so finish off Chinese from night before. Guddle in floordrobe for cleanish garments. 


9am – Bit of housework to keep on top of things. Pick up panty liner stuck to bedroom carpet from Monday. Dust glass topped coffee table with pants sucked up by over-zealous Hoover from under couch. Wonder about provenance of pants. Remember. Feel ashamed. Double Mars bar. Be-Lurpakked toast. Two slices. White.


11am Half an hour of self-loathing. Dairylea Dunker (four pack)

12 noon – Worry about clusterfuck of life admin eg change of address from Feb 2014. Attempt to overcome fear of phone like proper grown-up. Practice being confident on phone in front of mirror but top lip sticks to teeth with nerves. Send emails instead. Six chicken nuggets and a family bag of Kettle Chips. Two Rennies. Diet Coke. 


1pm Go for a run. In the car. To TK Maxx  via Costa. 


3pm – think about all the sex self is not having. Schedule in emergency half an hour of “me time” . (Requires batteries (4 x AA))(Cannibalise batteries from redundant remote for BT YouView which am too nervous to phone and cancel). Wonder if too early for vodka. Bar of cooking chocolate (desperate)


5pm – Enjoy a healthy dinner. Recipe: take two cucumbers, ginger, an apple, three carrots and a handful of goji berries. Put it all in the bin and order a pizza, chips and onion rings from Just Eat. Get fear about answering door to judgemental delivery person. Do it though because helloooooo…pizza. 


7pm – Usually enjoy fresh air around this time of night.  Open back door, chain smoke two fags, shut back door. Feel good about self. Catch self in mirror from side. Feel bad about self. Hate self. Realise self is unlovable and will die alone. Remember that even Charles Manson is married. Download Tinder again. Remember Tinder ends in tears. Digestive biscuits (six) be-Lurpakked and be-cheesed. Stuff into self’s mouth. 


9pm – bed. Remember packet of Love Hearts in bedside cabinet. Eat them without reading the lovey-dovey messages that seem to mock self. 


10pm – slip into lard-induced coma, hating the world, especially thin people in relationships.