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. 

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