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:
- 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.
- 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.