My body is a temple (at which many have worshipped)

Look at this pish. (Nicked via The Poke on the Facebooks. The Poke is always good for a snorty laugh). 

Hot water and lemon before a shower? At 6am? EH?? Does she have a paper round?? And what does she do with the hot water and lemon? Steep her feet in it? God that takes me back. We used to steep our feet when we were wee. It was what we did before they invented the internet. “MA! FETCH THE BASIN OOT THE KITCHEN SINK AND PUT SOME FAIRY LIQUID AND HOT WATER IN IT FUR MA FEET” Happy days.

Let’s move forward to Miss Healthfreak at 7am – Handful of nuts before weight training or a run. Her poor husband. I hope he’s awake when she grabs a handful. If I were her husband I’d be right behind her running regime but only so I could change the locks before she got back from running off that hot water and lemon, the greedy bitch. “Aye doll oan ye go, yer lookin’ a bit tubby wi aw thon egg white omelettes yer pokin’ doon’ yer neck”.

But wait! Praise the Lord! it’s alright! She’s normal! She treats herself on the weekends to an almond milk cappuccino! Wow! (Do almonds have teats? What a plitter milking an almond. I suppose my life could be worse. I could be an almond milker on a tiny milking stool) On the weekends I treat myself to a pie from Mogerley’s the butcher and a pipe of Pringles washed down with five French Martinis.

I can’t stop laughing at her ‘carby rice cakes’ at lunch. I had a three course Chinese for lunch today. Because I like something Chinesey at lunch. My wee 3pm dip is soon seen off by a Chunky Kitkat – just the one though – I’m not an animal.

I can’t comment on what she’s having for her tea at 8pm – I don’t understand any of the words. I can only assume it’s bin juice on something.

She must be great fun on a night out.

In other news, Tucker remains lovelorn. You’ll remember, if you’re my pal on FB, this…

GAWD. Tucker’s a complete shithouse with houseguests. Dragging my pants out of the washing basket, bouncing around like Donkey in Shrek desperate to be liked, pawing at bedroom doors drenched in Bob Martin doggy cologne, doing a gangsta lean in his bean bag giving it “aye this is ma bed like, plenty room if ye fancy sittin’ here – ma mummeh bought me it, and these toys, nice like. I’ve a nice gaff here. She lets me shit in the shower sometimes and rumble aboot in her clean bed when she’s just changed it. Aye life is sweet, Heather doll. Life. Is. Sweet”

Well he’s worse, if anything. I came in to find Barry White blasting out and him leaning back louchely on his beanbag (which he’s pimped with various toys and old bits of bone) with one of my good fags (the coloured Sobranie ones I bought before Christmas when I awkwardly bumped into my accountant, while I was splashing out a tenner on coloured fags) clutched between his paws waiting for Heather to come in the front door. Last night he lay down randomly in the middle of the living room carpet while Heather was standing in her jammies and I’m convinced he was trying to leer up her jammy leg – the little pervert.

How he’s grown. It was only last year I was buying teddies from the charity shops for him to have angry sex with – this was preferable to him humping my good cushions – one of them was Laura Ashley for chrissake! He’d hump the orphan teddies  rotten until they were effectively dead and I’d to take them out to the wheelie bin under the cover of darkness. We were like Fred and Rose West, with me the enabler for his perverted filth. I’m not proud, but feel oddly purged for the telling of this story.

The universe has a funny way of getting revenge.  Apparently this very afternoon Tucker was humped relentlessly by Vincent the Jackafrise. I got home from work and he had the crazed look of a broken man. Quid pro quo, Tucker. Quid pro quo.

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