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. 

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