Tuesday with shoddy grammar. 

Yesterday was a funny old day. I’m glad it’s over. Maybe now I can get back to what passes as normality in my stupid heid. Despite being all the tired in the world and falling asleep to the opening bars of the Desert Island Discs theme tune I’m still not sleeping properly; waking up at odd times and wondering whether I want a cup of tea, a fag at the back door, a bit of online shopping, a bag of Mini Cheddars or to bake an elaborate Priscilla Presley style multi-tiered wedding cake, for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Tucker, however, apart from the odd gappy toothed whistly sigh of contentment, snores gently at the foot of the bed, no doubt dreaming up a cunning plan to get the pants from the washing basket into his pant-shrine. 

The blogging muse is still refusing to descend. I’m bloggily constipated it seems, although I do have an idea for another blog which I’m flirting with. It’ll be even more irreverent and inappropriate than this one has been at times, but the very idea of it makes me lol, so I’ll need to get it out of my system soon. 

I’ve just completed a 12 hour day. I’m not built for such nonsense. I did try to approach my day with a positive attitude but I was tutting by 8am at my tuggy hair so abandoned that stupid fucking idea toot sweet. You know how you’re completely AWARE that you’re behaving irrationally and being a complete pain in the butt to all and sundry but you’re unable to stop yourself on your collision course to meltdown city Arizona? Yup, me too. I come from a long line of overreactors. It’s in my genes therefore I’m powerless to do anything about it, except pass it on to the fruit of my own loins (although they didn’t actually EMERGE from my actual loins per se; given that my pain threshold is set pretty low – eyebrow tweezing is a 7 on my own personal Richter scale of pain which only goes up to 7.5. I was hurled up the corridor of the old Cresswell maternity hospital twice during visiting time after hours of, by my standards, agonising labour with my legs quite literally akimbo, oblivious to the requests to shut them, pleading for somebody, anybody – janitor, cleaner, receptionist – ANYBODY – to simply remove my head from my body and yank the wean out in any way they saw fit just to make the ruddy pain stop). Is that previous sentence finished? I’ve no idea. I took two Kalms ten minutes ago and think they might’ve just kicked in, although it could be the teatime buffet carbfest that’s making me a bit bovine and skittish. 

Anyway, I apologise for the shoddy grammar, and bid you a goodnight. I’ll be conducting my usual “worrying on behalf of the world” session between the hours of 3am and 5am if you’ve any worrying you’d like me to undertake on your behalf. Think of me as a modern day Mother Theresa, with bigger tits and better shoes. Is that blasphemous?  Do I care? Not really. 

Things I’ve loved and lost. 

The universe giveth; and the universe taketh away. I refer, of course, to cocktail glasses. Similarly, amber rings. The universe doesn’t want me to have an amber ring.  I’ve lost count of how many amber rings I’ve bought and lost. I love amber, but I’m not meant to have it. See also purple cardigans from New Look. It’s bizarre. 

One of my favourite cocktail glasses met an untimely end last week. The other one met a similar untimely end tonight. Neither untimely end was at my hands, just for clarification. (My brother broke the first one, and Brenda, who happens to be his wife, broke the other – “Oh I bet THIS goes in your bloody blog” says she, while hoovering shrapnel out of my toaster’s orifices) They were a pair of lovely gold rimmed cocktail glasses, which looked particularly nice with a French Martini therein. Never mind, I mused, having just read the Dalai Lama’s take on attachment, (Inside I still fumed though) I enjoyed them for a while but the universe wanted them back and that’s FINE. NO. REALLY. I AM FINE WITH THAT. 

One day I’ll be reunited with all my favourite lost things. I’m looking forward to an eternity with my purple New Look cardigans, amber rings and gold-rimmed cocktail glasses. 

No, don’t argue, I’m DEFINITELY leaving Facebook. 

Theres something a bit poetic about this week. Something a bit Four Weddings and a Funeral-ly about it. 

By Monday I’ll have shadowed three weddings, actually married a real life couple (my very first one. I’ll never forget their full names and dates of birth – I practice-married them using stand-ins about a million times) and attended a funeral. (The aforementioned Horrible Thing is finally over. Or it will be by Monday when we say goodbye to my mother)

I’m going through a bit of a dry spell, blogwise. The blogging muse refuses to descend. I’ve usually a head full of nonsense but other than the odd earworm swirling around (today’s was Elton John belting out “THAT’S THE CIRCULLLL…THE CIRCULLLL OF LIIIIFE”) my head’s been a bit of a Gobi Desert, and I’m mooning around wondering what time of day it is and whether it’s okay to eat a half stale Krispy Kreme doughnut for my breakfast. My diet’s been appalling this past fortnight. I’ve metaphorically eaten my way around the world. 

The real reason I started this post was to say I’m deactivating Facebook for a while. I’ve been saying it since Tuesday but still haven’t done it. What’s wrong with me? I announced it again last night to the assembled throng that is my family, and Brenda (sister in law – lives in Holland. I must do a dramatis personae so you can all follow who’s who) scoffed passive aggressively, saying I’d never do it. I could TOTALLY leave Facebook. Any time I jolly well like. She says I’ll post a status giving everyone advance warning so they can beg me to stay, then 24 hours later I’ll post another one saying “RIGHT, THAT’S ME AWAY THIS TIME. NO I AM, REALLY”. As if I’d do that. I’m not in the slightest bit needy. 

But seriously though, I’m deactivating Faceyb for a few days. I’ve too much on. 

PS – is it just me or is making that bloke on The Voice last night wear a faux-fro a bit odd and, might I venture, a teeny bit racist? It made me uneasy. And wearing a flesh coloured jumper with his disconcertingly erect nipples atop his obvious manboobs (oh come on – you were thinking it too) to meet Usher was ill-considered. I’m embarrassed for our nation. 

PPS I’m still gutted I missed Usher at the SECC Hydro last week, having had the tickets for almost a fucking YEAR. Not that I was resentful, mind. Oh okay a tiny bit of me was shaking my fist at the universe for its shitty timing, but I’m only human. 

PPPS – (phone autocorrected that to POOPS which made me LOL). Things that annoy me number 9 million: I was enjoying a chat with Les on the phone (I know! Me! On the phone! Like a proper grown up! I didn’t even scowl at it when it rang!) (actually..on reflection, this could have been a text conversation, so let’s not get carried away too soon – I’ve got false memory syndrome – remind me to phone the doc about that tomorrow – oh and remind me to tell him about my nocturnal Prader-Willi – last night I ate a lump of treacle toffee and a bag of Mini Cheddars at 3am) and we were talking about my favourite thing – misused turns of phrase and grammatical errors that make us want to grind my teeth to bloody stumps eg 

  • “it’s literally a mindfield” (double whammy) 
  • “pacifically”
  • “Could of” (see also “would of” and “should of”)
  • “Proberly”
  • Wrong use of loose and lose
  • People who type breath when they mean breathe. 

God I sound like a right bitch. Feel free to unfriend me on Facebook. It’ll save me having to announce my departure if everyone just unfriends me. Thanks in advance because this is literally a mindfield. 


Tearing off tights with my teeth. 

The title of this post, for the uneducated, is a line from Faithless Insomnia; just for clarification. I haven’t gone completely bonkers! (I hate the word bonkers. I also hate the word boogie and most words that end in -sh. I don’t like the way my mouth feels when I say words ending in -sh)

I’m waking up every couple of hours like a newborn baby who doesn’t know what it wants. Do I want feeding? Nappy changed? Do I want to play? Deedled? Wrapped in a blanky and walked the floor to sleep? I might cry and see if somebody comes to lift me crabbitly and plonk me in a bouncy chair in front of The Hit Man and Her (remember that mentalness?) while they bounce the chair a bit more aggressively than they should with their toe, and fall asleep) (I may or may not have done that with one or more of my offspring) (you can’t prove anything)

I might have a fag at the back door. Do I want that? Will I put a wash on? Hoover? Make a quiche? Make an elaborate three tier celebration cake? No. I’m a lot of things,  but I’m not Fanny Cradock. 

Goodnight and may all your doughnuts turn out like Fanny’s. (The old ones are the best eh?)

Out of the loop with pork pies. 

What’s happening in the world? I’m completely out of the loop, current affairs wise. (Not that I’m generally IN the loop current affairs wise, or even usually in the same dark matter filled space time continuum of current affairs, but i can smell a copy of celebrity gossip filled Heat magazine a mile away and the world needs a good mix of people with different emotional intelligences  and skills to make the world go round.  Fuck your money or indeed your love – they don’t make the world go round, although it certainly helps – especially I suppose if you’re poor AND single)) (I think that long winded aside required a double closed bracket and look I’ve opened another bloody bracket I need to close – here)

I’ve been in a weird world of bedside vigils, napping on faux leather couches, nightshifts and eating pork pies, which makes me feel slutty, but not entirely in a bad way if I’m being honest. I’m not being deliberately obtuse, so don’t go sending me “wotz up chick?” or “PM me hon” messages on the old Facebooks. (About the reason for the bedside vigils – not the pork pie eating) It’s just not stuff that’s blogworthy, and at time of tippytapping this pile of shit on my phone, is still very much ongoing and pretty awful.  

Facebook, which, incidentally is grinding my gears at the moment, although my gears are easily ground) has been a welcome distraction from the Horrible Thing that’s ongoing. That, and watching this cat with a printer video again and again:

http://youtu.be/SiHsfqmnkv0

 I’ve also been enjoying a good scroll through the various sales and wants pages on FB, which are always good for a laugh, and am constantly amazed at the cheek and impudence of some people : “I’m looking for a tumble dryer – must be in good working order”. No shit. Try the shops. They’ve that many tumble driers in Currys they’re selling them. 

In an interesting aside about pork pies – they make pork pie wedding cakes! Look! 



Pork pie wedding cakes! The strapline could be “Make sure your future wife’s  is the only soggy bottom on your wedding night with our Pork Pie wedding cake”. 

For someone who hates chatting on phone I’ve sure clocked up a few air miles on the old blower these past few weeks. I’ve spent so much time on the phone I’m worried that my left ear will evolve into a giganto-ear and I’ll never be able to wear my hair up again, and then where will I be?  Right up Queer Street, that’s where – and I’ve a wedding to appear mother of the bridey at in December, and I know I’ll want to be giganto-ear free and hair-uppy for that particular gig. Let’s all pray for a pork pie wedding cake! 

I’m up writing this nonsense at this hour because my circadian rhythms are all skew whiff as a result of the Horrible Thing. I’m also up because Tucker started making barf noises and I’d to hurry him outside. That was a fun thing at 5am. I’m glad he woke me, mind. I was having a stressful work related dream that made me wake up in a cold sweat and nobody needs that really do they? Especially while the Horrible Thing is ongoing. 

I’m also weirdly craving a fag at the back door, which is usually a nighttime guilty pleasure. My body clearly doesn’t know its arse from its elbow this week. 

Ps – I’ve said pork pie a lot in this post. Sorry. Pork pie is the new vagina, it seems! 

Ain’t technology great? And something about fags. 

Technology eh? Great innit? I’ve always been an early adopter of tech. Enquiring mind, see? Since that time I accidentally on purpose pressed a button inside a fridge in a holiday home stocked with holiday grub when I was 8 and defrosted the fucking fridge (we holidayed in Southerness, because it had a pub. Sandyhills was a few miles up the road but we never holidayed there, because it didn’t have a pub. I actually didn’t know Sandyhills existed until I was 18. I was protected from its healthy pub-free, smoke-free outdoor family pursuits environment by being huckled, unfettered by the modern lifesaving nonsense that is the seatbelt (remember Jimmy Savile telling us to Clunk Click Every Trip? Yeah…right. What was he REALLY SAYING?  I suspect if you played that public information film backwards it would be like that urban myth about playing a Led Zep (was it that?) LP backwards and hearing some Satan worshiping message) to Southerness in the back of a smoke-filled car with the windaes up for a week every July: 

 “Daaaaad! I can’t breathe!” 

“Shut up and read yer Twinkle”

The smoke from my dad’s chain-smoked Capstan Full Strength settled like a gloomy cloud (probably representative of my mother’s wrath for whatever one of the myriad things my dad did that irked her) in the back of the car and served as a smoke-screen for the signs reading “SANDYHILLS THIS WAY” and “SANDYHILLS – AN ACTUAL PLACE WHICH EXISTS AND ISN’T LIKE FOR EXAMPLE NARNIA” and “SANDYHILLS – THERE’S NAE PUB – JUST FRESH AIR AND HEALTHY OUTDOOR PURSUITS FOR SMUG NORMAL FAMILIES WITH DADS WHO DON’T SMOKE IN THE CAR WITH THE WINDAES UP”. I’m not saying I didn’t ENJOY these summer holidays – we were pretty much feral for a week and lived on lurid orange Velveeta cheese sandwiches. 

I’ve gone off-piste, haven’t i? Have I brackets that need closing? Can’t be arsed to check. I’m lying in bed letting my body weight in Thai Green Curry settle. Thai Green Curry, Maltesers, Sons of Anarchy on the Netflix and Tucker nicking pants from the washing basket and parading them through the living room like trophies. Living the dream, man. Living. Thuh. Dream. 

The reason I started talking about the greatness of technology is lost in the Capstan Full Strength mist of blog time. I think it was meant to be about Siri, so let’s just carry on down that road, shall we? 

My esteemed colleague, let’s call him, oh I don’t know, for the sake of respecting his privacy, McNabb, has discovered Siri. This textual exchange occurred last night. McNabb, if that is indeed his real name, and indeed, presumably for reasons best known to his parentals, is indeed actually his actual name, makes me laugh daily. He’s unconsciously bloody hilarious. This is the man who, on wooing his now wife, explained that they couldn’t see each other one weekend due to his being on a covert military mission. He was, in actual fact, ten pin bowling in Leamington Spa with the Territorial Army. The nearest the workshy fop has been to active service is nicking post-its from the office stationery cupboard. 

Interestingly, McNabb has an Aga but doesn’t like to talk about it much. Ahem. Anyway this text exchange occurred last night: (unsolicited I might add – I’d been rather busy with a jar of Nutella and a spoon for about an hour. 

The blue bits are mine. Is was ostensibly a discussion about scones. Siri doesn’t know scone. Poor Siri. Missing out on a Marchbanks scone. You’ll also detect a slight note of irritation creeping in on my part, before I decide, oh fuck it, I’ll try Siri too. 



That was the first batch. You’ll see I was ignoring it. Then, this…



I succumbed to the lure of the cheese scone. I could almost hear its sweet siren Lurpakky song, beckoning…



Then I started getting disgruntled. I was kind of saying “right you’ve got my scone order, my work here is done”. Undeterred, and possibly drunk, he ploughed on…



Again, my irritation rears its ugly head. I used his name to get his attention. He was having none of it…so, on the basis of “if you can’t beat them to death with a blunt object, you might as well join them, I fired up Siri…







And so it ended. I got my cheese scorn in the end for fox sake, so it all worked out fine in the end. Thank you Siri. Thank you technology. 

In an interesting postscript to this nonsense, and entirely unconnected, I’ve watched SIX weddings this week. Another four tomorrow. Looking forward to being let loose on actual people. Meanwhile I need to practice. If you’d like to role play a faux wedding, let me know. I’m sure it’s not legal unless you sign something in blood. Just saying the words doesn’t magically make you married. It’s not like looking in the mirror and saying Candyman three times. I wouldn’t test that theory though. 

Today’s featured image, for no good reason, is a battered sausage. 

Well, well. Things turned a bit maudlin there, didn’t they? Not even a whiff or a mention of a vagina. I blame the weekend excesses. Alcohol wreaks havoc with my chi and makes me a bit melancholy. Still, enjoyable at the time, so that’s what matters eh? 

Feeling much better today, which on the surface is a good thing, but, ever the enigma, I’m worried if I’m not worrying. I’ve spent my life worrying about worrying. I like to worry away at things until I’m paralysed with existential angst.  

Today’s worry is that I’m running out of life to do all the things I want to do. I’ve got this weird obsession with climbing Everest. “I’ll never climb Everest!” I whine, dramatically, every now and again. It’s ridiculous really because I don’t even take the stairs up M&S food hall, preferring instead to stand on the escalator, laden down with Percy Pigs and tattie scones, while staring blankly ahead. I did climb Criffel once, and that’s kinda the same thing. Coming down was worse than going up, which applies to lots of things in life. 

I constantly feel like I’m running out of life to read all the books I want to read. Optimistically, I’m clinging on like a mountain goat to the possibility that there are parallel universes in which every possible permutation of every possible thing is being carried out by a parallel Lindsey, reading all the books, and doing all the things. 

Other things I hope the parallel Lindseys are doing include:

  • Sticking to a diet
  • Enjoying pert breasts. 
  • Moisturising her legs daily. 
  • Not sneering at people who save. 
  • Enunciating properly instead of mumbling lazily. 
  • Saying “no chips for me thanks, I hate fried food”
  • Saying “Sorry, I can’t lie around in my bed all day today eating Hula Hoops, I like to tackle my life admin daily”
  • Not caring about clusterfucks of anything, including life admin. 
  • Knows where the iron lives and  doesn’t say “fucking bastard iron” every time she comes across it to iron the bits of a garment that show, which isn’t often, now that all the parallel Lindseys have learned the secret of the “ice cube in the tumble dryer” trick, gleaned from a dentist surgery 1998 copy of Readers’ Digest. 
  • Phoning people. The earthbound Lindsey is phone-phobic, unless there’s the possibility of food involved at the end of it. 
  • Not wasting away a perfectly acceptable Sunday with a Prosecco and Marlboro hangover and associated heeby-jeebies. 
  • Not playing petrol chicken (running on fumes because too idle to fill ‘er up)
  • Wouldn’t know the inside of a Gregg’s or have eaten a Steak Bake. 
  • Doesn’t pretend she likes, for example, brown rice. 
  • Is sewing up the hole in that black frock. 
  • Has a good dose of something (nothing too icky though) that requires one of the parallel Lindseys to be holed up in bed watching all the Godfather movies, followed by Once Upon A Time in America, and possibly Carlito’s Way, for the soundtrack. 

What would you like your parallel selves to be doing? Please insert in comments. I’m genuinely interested. (I’m not really; I couldn’t give a shit, but I’d quite like some comments on my blog). 

In other news, did I see something on Facebook about a competition to win dinner with George Clooney? Why would I want that?! I’ve never got the thing with Clooney. He looks like one of those blokes that’d have a really earnest sex face, which would make me laugh. Not that for one minute am I suggesting that dinner with Clooney would end up with me, legs akimbo, in the back of a limo. Heavens to Betsy, no. Not with my back. 

A serious post, sorry. 

http://www.purpleclover.com/relationships/875-what-dying-want-us-know-about-living/

In an unusual turn of events, this is a wee serious Sunday night post, so don’t read it if you’re feeling a bit Sundaynighty and gloomy. 

I read the article in the link above. I read stuff like that all the time and think – yep – I really need to be more in the moment and take the time to enjoy stuff instead of thinking about the next thing. I’m always in a hurry, usually unnecessarily. The world’ll keep spinning if I don’t, for example, tackle the Clusterfuck of Life Admin. I saw a beautiful rainbow the other day and the first thing I did was grab my phone to take a picture. What a tit! Why can’t I just look at the rainbow and enjoy it? When my pal Jane and I undertook a Wild West adventure we were leaving Zion Canyon in a bus and I looked to the left and a beautiful full moon was hovering right above a lovely sandstone peak, like something from a movie. I jumped up shouting “MOON! MOOOOOON!” like a madwummin, much to the surprise of our fellow travellers. I spent so much time scrabbling for my phone and camera, the perfect positioning of moon and peak was lost before I’d properly enjoyed the bloody thing and committed it properly to memory. 

Talking of memory, my ma has dementia. She’s currently in hospital after breaking a hip. If I can be horribly and cruelly honest, she’s not much fun to be around any more, and doesn’t communicate much. She no longer knows who I am. When I (grudgingly) visit, I clockwatch. I look out of the window and wonder how much time needs to elapse before it’s acceptable to slither away again. I mentally plan what I’m having for my tea. 

But…on Friday, during my reluctant visit, she did something so sad and poignant I haven’t been able to tell anybody about it properly. I’m going to write it now. Gulp. 

I was absentmindedly swinging my legs on her hospital bed, staring out of the window as per usual, wondering what to have for my tea, when I felt her hand on my cheek. I flinched a bit when she touched me, and turned round to look at her. Her hand moved to my hair and she stroked it.  We just looked at each other and my face crumpled. I let her stroke my hair and watch my face crumple until the moment passed. I cried all the way home but I’m glad I just sat there and let her stroke my hair. 

She would never have wanted this to happen to her, and I hope to fuck if dementia ever happens to me that one of my kids will do the right thing and not have to suffer soul destroying visits, guilt and sadness. As the young folk say – #YOLO. Do what makes you happy before it’s too late, and enjoy just looking at the rainbows and full moons. 

Don’t feel sorry for me, by the way. I don’t deserve it, and it’s not the point of this post. I just wanted to make a point. Right, back to talking about tits and Tucker…

Peace out. 

Lindy Bop and eBay, darling!

I’ve been at wee Annie’s wedding! They call her wee Annie because she’s wee. A beautiful wee bride in her beautiful wee frock. A perfect wee day. I spent the whole day yesterday getting ready, fussing around with makeup and constantly reapplying it until I looked like Danny LaRue. 

If anyone had been interested enough to shout, as I hirpled up the steps to the Easterbrook Hall in the uncomfiest shoes in the world, “Hey Lindsey! Who are you wearing?” I’d’ve answered coyly – “Oh this old thing? I’m wearing Lindy Bop and eBay darling” and the overall look could be summed up “Ruebenesque bordello madam chic” thusly:



Sadly the wind was such that by the time I got to the venue, by way of the petrol station for fags, that MASSIVE victory roll had blown straight out and left me looking like this:



You’ll note too the cavernous cleavage you could park a Harley in. It didn’t go unnoticed, and prompted many hilarious comments including “Lindsey’s brought Right Said Fred!” and when I enquired “Have I no got a mooth, like?” when wee Susan (Why are my friends wee? Makes me sound like Snow White) was pouring the 21 quid a bottle Prosecco, weirdly missing my glass out, she replied tartly – “aye but a cannae see it fur yer tits”.  

Still, removing one’s larger than life bra at night always reveals a trail of evidence and clues as to how much one has enjoyed one’s day. Last night’s “things found in cleavage” included:

  • Half a sausage roll. 
  • Fag ash. 
  • One Parma violet. 
  • A lighter
  • Somebody’s email address reverse printed on my boob which I can only assume had been written on a scrap of paper subsequently assimilated by my bosom but not before leaving an imprint. 
  • An Argos pen. 
  • The obligatory half a dozen Kirby grips. 

I got home around midnight, left a trail of clothes from the bathroom to the bedroom and thought “Oooh I’ll listen to Trevor Nelson for a while because it’ll take me aaaages to get to sl…zzzzzzzzz

I woke up at 6am, dry of mouth, with a dose of the heeby jeebies, makeup intact, and no memory of hearing Trevor. I looked up the tracklist to see if any tunes had subliminally lodged in my brain but nope. So obviously that’s a load of shite. 

And finally…*shuffles papers on desk, newsreader style* *gives wry, flirty smile to camera*, I just picked my car up from the wedding venue, where I’d abandoned it overnight, and was amused to notice this interesting “in-car survival kit” in the footwell. Be prepared;  that’s my motto. *gives Brownie Guide salute*



Disclaimer: This post in no way condones drunken behaviour or acting the goat. It’s not big, and it’s not clever, kids. 

Friday round-up with pic of mug with Queen Mum thereon. 

Bad: What’s with this bloody weather? 

Bad: Saw a dead badger. 

Good: Good eyebrows today. Fierce. 

Bad: Walker’s Sweet n Salty Popcorn. 

Good: Woke up in great mood.

Bad: Didn’t last. 

Bad: I’ve a frock to iron for wee Annie’s wedding the morra. The mere thought is bringing on a downer. 

Good: Looking forward to wedding and having MASSIVE HAIR. 

Good: There’s bacon in the fridge 

Bad: There’s nae breid for aforementioned bacon. 

Bad:Time travel machine apparently still not invented. Useful for skipping back to good times and skipping forward through eg dental appointments and smear tests. 

Bad: Still don’t own a Dinky Donuts van to keep in my drive, for when I fancy a batch of Dinky Donuts, which is all the time, frankly. I’d also like a hot tub in the garden. Tucker and I could sit together in it awkwardly of an evening scowling at passers-by, with my breasts bobbing gently atop the human/canine “soup” while he barks at men in hi-vis jackets and anyone with even a slight disability eg a bit of a lisp. I’m sorry. 

Good: Only cried twice today. (Almost three) Personal best. 

Good: Posted a thing back. 

Bad: Ordered more things which will inevitably require sending back, over which I’ll procrastinate like a big fat procrastinating arse. 

Good: Comfy Extra Large tights that go alllllll the way up to my boobs and have good gusset to crotch ratio

Bad: Comfy Extra Large tights wrinkle and bunch up at my cankles. 

Very Bad: Floordrobe. 

Good: Found the missing Favourite Bed Tee Shirt With Vegas On The Front (FBTSWVOTF) in the floordrobe after a bit of a guddle. The FBTSWVOTF has taken over from the TBSNOS (Tesco Butt Skimming Nightie Of Shame) which fell out of favour after the Great Accidental Nipple Flash Of 2014. 

Bad: This fucking wind. (The meteorological kind)

Good: Kate came round for Biryani, gossip, cackling, ranting and mutual tunes admiration. 

Bad: Possibility of more of This Fucking Wind  (the Biryani kind)

Good: remembered to put bin out this morning.

Bad: Hate dragging the bastard bin back up the gravelly drive more than I hate for example people who say “oh just come to {insert dull thing}. You’ll enjoy it when you get there! 

Bad: Zero progress with Satan’s jigsaw 

Very Bad: Zero progress with Clusterfuck of Life Admin. It’s getting silly now. 

Bad: Finances have all gone to shit. 

Good: Meditated. 

Bad: Couldn’t flap away the bad thoughts during meditation and at every other time of day and ended up in foul mood. Am shit at meditating. Good at self-loathing. 

Good: Got nice things with the “gone to shit” finances*

* Nice dress for wedding, massive flower thing for hair, nice new cardi, Superdry hoodie (am I a teenage boy allofasudden? But so COMFY).