Arctic Tundra and Bri Nylon

I’ve got some weird permafrost action going on on my front garden. (Totally sounds like a euphemism,  but isn’t, yet is, in fact, strangely fitting as a euphemism). In scenes reminiscent of the “Big Snow of ’96”, the “Big Snow of Last Week”  has left my front garden and associated driveway like the arctic tundra. Does tundra have snow?  I don’t know and can’t be arsed googling it, but I know we covered it in geography. I can’t remember much about geography on account of Miss Pointytits – the “assumed lesbian” geography teacher – (may not have been her real name) being the scariest woman I’ve ever encountered in the history of scary women, and I’ve encountered a few scary women. I encounter one every time I look in the mirror, for example. I tried to get uppity with her once. Never tried it again. Anyway, nothing much sank in, except that soft fruits are grown in Scotland somewhere.

Ah the halcyon schooldays…

Taking our inspiration from the McCarthy witch hunts of the 1950s,  we vile 15/16 year olds would take the greatest pleasure in indiscriminately “outing” various teachers, including Miss Pontytits,  to each other as gay, a sure sign of depravity,  probably because it was the raciest thing our 15 year old brains could imagine. Sometimes just to mix it up a little, we’d claim to have witnessed gay deviant behaviour between these depraved teachers, usually in cupboards. When we weren’t busy outing teachers, we were busy picking the fibres out of our candlewick bedspreads, or generating enough static electricity from our Bri Nylon ™ pyjamas to power a small town.

But as I was saying, my front garden remains covered in snow. Step outside the gate – green as far as the eye can see. Step back in my garden – white. I half expect to find Mr Tumnus rootling around in my wheely bin, looking for tasty morsels. Don’t bother son, it’s full of pizza boxes and crisp packets. Slim pickings for a faun.

Despite the deathtraps that are the pavements of Dumfries. the ‘fashion runners’ are still rife. It beggars belief really. Fashion runners aren’t real runners. They quite like the idea of being seen ‘running’ with their fancy running gear and sooky bottles of water. Watching them ponce along like giraffes it’s all I can do to stop myself hollering “YER TECHNIQUE’S SHITE!” Not that I’d know good running technique if I saw it, but they just annoy me. I’m easily annoyed, mind. They’re generally self proclaimed ‘yummy mummies’. What’s with all this yummy mummy guff? There were no yummy mummies in my day. We all looked like shit and we knew it. It’s all we could do to brush our teeth once a week following childbirth. I’d answer the door to all and sundry, breasts ahoy. I was so tired from trying in vain to breastfeed I’d forget to put my tits away. I once answered the door to the minister (that’s another story) with a baby attached to one breast and the other one just hanging there. He’d probably never seen the like.

I’m never quite sure how to finish a blog off. Emm….bye!

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