This blog contains innuendo, therefore NSFW and NSF the dads. 

I’ll ease you in gently with the boring stuff first…If anybody has any worrying they’d like me to undertake on their behalf tonight I’m available for fretting  between the hours of 3am and 7am. No worry too small. As soon as the alarm goes off of course things will be very different. I’ll be yawning my head off,  and will want to sleep the sleep of the dead. 

Today I was hysterical with tiredness, behaving like a toddler who’s been at the blue Smarties until about 2pm, laughing at the proverbial swinging gate, when BAM! I crashed and burned and longed to be wrapped in a blanky and deedled to sleep in a comfy bosom. Oh what bliss! 

Speaking of bosoms, which I usually do, this new bra is giving me a terrible case of “popover tit” which only became apparent when I walked past a shiny shop window. I’ve a bouncy walk, it seems, which exaggerates the effect of an ill-fitting bra. I was alarmed at the amount of jiggle, and the strange multi-breasted effect resulting from the condition known as popover tit. I should’ve known better than to go off-piste in Bravissimo by throwing caution to the winds and attempting to style out a flimsy lacy black number rather than my usual Clyde built, worryingly named “Superbra” bra made from what feels like girders. 

My biorhythms are all over the bloody shop this week and don’t know their arse from their elbow, what with starting work in the middleofthebloodynight and finishing way past my teatime, a thing guaranteed to make me angsty. The angst is etched into my face, akin to the face that happens when Michael Bublé comes on my telly. I’ve been around the region spreading a kind word hither and thither (despite my angsty 230pm face) which has opened up endless opportunities to get rid of money on more ridiculous things I don’t need. Egged on (which, if you read on, can be shoehorned in as a pun) by similarly profligate colleagues I spent a fortune in a well respected butcher. I’m scared of butchers – not because of how they might hurt me with their big scary tools (oh grow up) but because my social awkwardness rears its ugly head around a butcher. Butcher banter scares me and everything in a butcher’s shop is fraught with the potential for innuendo, so, like a teenage boy who really wants to buy condoms but ends up buying cotton wool, I end up buying something relatively safe but innuendo free eg tattie scones, which I could’ve bought stress and innuendo free in fucking Tesco. That said, my head was turned by a fancy meat product that was a mysterious hybrid of beef and ham, spiced, which is then fried. They had me at fried. Despite it sounding a bit Hilary Briss, I bought some, together with, if you must know,  two beef olives and half a dozen Duck eggs, the purchase of which made me feel a bit Henry VIII. I never buy beef olives due to not being overly keen on things stuffed inside other things. The thought of yon three bird roast, or to give it its proper name, turducken*, gives me the heave, although as some of you will be aware, I’ve a highly sensitive gag reflex (INNUENDO CITY ARIZONA). Turns out I subconsciously resented the beef olives because they were still in my handbag, festering away, this morning. Still ate them like. Well, Tucker did. 

The nearest I’ll get to eating turducken, or “a thing within a thing” is a Scotch pie in a buttered roll. Which is a thing. What would the portmanteau name for that be? A Scopibutro?

*turducken = TURkey inside a DUCK inside a chickEN. (Although that order defies the laws of physics and therefore makes no sense but you can stuff it in any way you like, I’m still not putting it in my mouth (INNUENDO CITY ARIZONA REVISITED). 

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