The Great Cankling of 2014

Tuesday: 5am. 

It’s always about this stupid time of day I think “oh I’ll just text [insert name here] about [insert thing here]” then I remember what stupid time it is and stop myself, in case I wake the recipient, and actually if I’m honest even that would give me some dark glee, because if I’m not sleeping then why the hell are you? Getting all up in my grill with your eight hours sleep a night while Tucker and I stare at the ceiling fretting about the future of humanity and listening to Woman’s Hour at 2am. I hate you and the horse you rode in on. 

I generally forget to text these same people later in the day, what with being swept up in work related matters and thinking about what I’ll have for my tea, unless it’s:

 a) a very juicy bit of gossip 

b) relates to getting out of a social event which I’d earlier expressed enthusiasm for, or

c) involves food

Sorry but that’s just the way it is. Anyway don’t get me antsy, I’m off to get the BP checked early doors. I’ll be buggered if I’m going back on the cankle enhancing tablets after the Great Cankling Incident of 2014 at James and Brian’s wedding, where I could only be photographed from the knee up and was forced to shuffle around in hotel slippers for the weekend in scenes akin to Cersei’s Walk of Atonement in last night’s Game of Thrones season finale. 

Great Cankling was emworsened (possibly not a real word) by sharing a room with my pal Susan, a leggy blonde who ponced around in Vivienne Westwood and grownup lady shoes looking all effortless and normal ankley. I should’ve smothered her with a pillow and made it look like an accident. 

“Oh I don’t know officer…she must’ve just kind of sucked the pillow on to her face during the night. The drawn on moustache? I’ve no idea. Who would do such a thing to such a pretty face? Oh well, never mind. I’m afraid I’ll have to rush you, breakfast closes in ten, and they ran out of hash browns yesterday when I got down” while jealously flushing her Vivienne Westwood down the toilet and tapping my Fitbit because EVERY STEP COUNTS EVEN IF A MURDER IS BEING COMMITTED, YO. 

I’m off to meditate my way to lower blood pressure. Have a great day. I know I will! (Yes I’m looking at the camera sideways)

PS – OH LORDY! I’ve just looked up “cankling”. Don’t look at the Urban Dictionary definition. (Which I realise is the same as saying “Go and look up the Urban Dictionary definition”)

PPS – Don’t shoot the messenger. 

Well that was an interesting 48 hours. How to lose half a stone and burn off the lining of your throat so you sound like you’ve smoked sixty fags a day and not just the odd fagatthebackdoor without really trying. 

I did somehow summon up the energy to forage for nursery food at the Big Tesco as I was craving Potato Waffles, Tomato Soup and Baked Beans with Sausages. A Birds Eye/Heinz extravaganza. 

Target located and acquired, I returned to the safety of the house exhausted by foraging and had to lie down for an hour, flicking through Instagram like a crazy person. How did cavemen manage? It’s a mystery. Turns out I didn’t fancy the nursery food in the end. Warmed up some tomato soup, sloshed it in a bowl, staggered through to living room to eat it, realised I fancied a raw tattie scone with it so laid soup bowl on table to fetch the aforementioned T-scone. Got back to Tucker looking gormlessly at me with a tomato soup moustache beside an empty bowl of tomato soup.  

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is probably how I ended up with this feckin’ bug in the first place – human/canine cross contamination. I did kiss him full on his grumpy snout when I got back from Paris, momentarily forgetting about his predilection for eating all manner of shit – both literally and figuratively.

I have managed to bingewatch the last two Game of Thrones eps, and collected my  fifty quid winnings on a Scratchcard, so every shitty cloud has a silver lining. 

Not so good on the old Fitbit stats today – my steps count is at about twenty and don’t even ask about my sleep report. (You weren’t going to? Oh. Okay. I thought you might even feign some interest but whatever). 

I’ve had a run of good fortune on the clothes front since returning from Paris. Tesco! I know! Good old Florence and Fred! (Is it still called that? I fear I’ve barfed up some brain cells as well as the lining of my throat) I’ve gone jumpsuit-tastic but they’re so COMFY until you need a widdle then they’re Satan’s own garments, sleeves dropping down the toilet without so much as a by your leave.

I was a bit febrile and tetchy yesterday. A bit rabbit in the headlightsy. Understandable, given my health, but sometimes you just wonder where people get off, non? Jesus, mind your own business already and never give an unsolicited opinion because it’s rarely welcome. I thank you. Now go about your business while I wallow in some self loathing and stare mournfully at my cankles. 

Exeunt stage left.

Fin. 

Sick note. 

Would you bloody believe it? Last day of a week’s holiday and I get a mystery – not to mention unattractive – sickness bug at 2am Sunday. You couldn’t make it up. I’m very pissed off now that I can move my head to pick up my phone and moan about it. 

Regular Facebook inspections have revealed that everybody’s having a fabulous Sunday doing their Sunday thing and I’m lying here alone, except for Tucker, a big sweaty mess. 

He’s been regularly bringing me toys that I don’t have the energy to throw for him. I could feel his wee furry presence creeping in to the room and I just knew he had his squeaky fried egg in his mouth and he knows that’s my favourite.  I hadn’t the energy to turn round and speak to him. I’d’ve cried at his little Paw Broon face. 

Is there a sicky bug doing the rounds or am I responsible for bringing it into the country? 

Fortunately (but not for them – they’ve now seen things you people wouldn’t believe, to paraphrase Rutger Hauer in Bladerunner) I had the offspring stay last night and they were very supportive and caring (although at one point Hannah unhelpfully suggested “Get a Chinese takeaway doon ye” which made me barf anew. 

I’ve lost my voice due to vomiting what felt like battery acid for twelve hours solid. 

Strangely, I now fancy some Haribo but I can’t go like this – I’m as weak as a kitten and haven’t the energy to put clothes on. I couldn’t handle a visitor either so it’s Catch 22, innit? 

Christ. 

I’ve several blog post drafts in various states of draftness but I interrupt this boring piece of news which has done nobody any good whatsoever or enriched anyone’s Friday morning to tell you about my Fitbit stats. 

I’m homeward bound today after three days of overzealous Fitbit activity monitoring. It seems I’ve had a total of nine hours actual sleep since Tuesday despite the 27 miles I’ve (allegedly) stomped round Paris and despite the foolhardy over-consumption of steak frites and white wine. 

Of course, had it not been for the aforementioned Fitbit (Fatbutt?) stats obsession I’d’ve been none the wiser about my 227 minutes of restlessness during my 239 minute “sleep” but it does paint a worrying picture, does it not? 

I’ll bet doctors’ surgeries are overwhelmed with hypochondriac, middle aged fannies like me marching into their surgeries waving their Fitbit apps around, citing their sleep reports as evidence that something is terribly, terribly wrong and demanding referrals to sleep clinics. I won’t be happy until I can find an ailment I can pin ALL my random symptoms on. 

The time I’ve spent in Paris not sleeping the non-sleep of the insomniac has of course been very pleasant thank you very much. This includes sitting on the apartment balcony naked from the waist down, taking the air (and the odd Marlboro Light) allowing the curse of the fat thighed woman – the chub rub –  to calm the fuck down. 

 Balcony sitting also afforded me the opportunity to perv over the neighbour’s rabbits, much to Les’s annoyance: “Will you STOP looking at the wee rabbits?! You can’t have them. If I wake up and there’s a rabbit in the bed I’ll be very angry”. But that just made me look wistfully through that crack even more. 
  
 

Sigh. 

Au revoir les lapins du (de?) Paris. Bonjour my own bed and more Fitbit sleep pattern (or lack thereof) obsessiveness.   

Fuller and illustrated report to follow if I can be arsed revisiting and revising all the bloody drafts. 

Mom jeans and Hippety Hoppety Hoo.

I have feck all to wear. I have stuff to wear at work and I have stuff to wear to bed and that’s it. I have nothing to wear that isn’t for those occasions. I might as well be in prison – at least I’d have a uniform and unbridled downtime. I sometimes childishly wish there was a uniform we had to wear, issued by the government or something. To hell with self expression – I’d gladly pull on a Government issue onesie or a space age tinfoil suit.

I spend my weekends dressed like a teenage boy (if a teenage boy wore comfort waistband leggings) in Converse and a tshirt. I’m fifty odd. It’s ridiculous. I make an effort for work but that gives me nowhere to go at the weekends as it’s against the law to wear work attire casually. And I stopped suiting jeans when my body shape kinda melted and reformed into the shape that only “mom jeans” will fit, thus:


I can’t wear “button through” anything on account of my massive tits.  I recently fancied myself in a denim frock so hunted one down on eBay. (Vintage, allegedly, which probably means they bought it in the Next sale in 2013). When it arrived it looked like it was made for a ten foot stilt walker so off it went to be taken up (and in, surprisingly enough).

I thought it’d be a refreshing piece of holiday attire – I could meander round Paris in a button through denim frock to the envy of all the Parisien fifty somethings. (The last time I darkened Paris’s doors it was at the height of the Crocs “trend” and I thought I was it and a bit, flapping through the streets of Paris with what looked like holey baguettes on my feet. I felt smug. I was baffled at the lack of Crocs on everyone else’s feet, given the level of comfort – not to mention style – I was enjoying. I mistook the looks of pity for admiring glances. It turns out France had done the Crocs “trend” if it ever was a trend, and I certainly wasn’t bringing sexy (or anything else for that matter) back to the Champs Élysées)

I buttoned myself firmly into the denim frock on a sweltering Paris Wednesday morning, slathered Coconut Body Butter on my razorburned legs and slithered out into the Paris sunshine. Fucking dress. I ended up doing a Judy Finnegan round the Musee d’Orsay with the top three buttons flapping open at every opportunity, displaying my big pink bra for all to see. Fortunately I had a sewing kit in my bag, built into the lid of a promotional hairbrush, (don’t ask) so sat in the bogs sewing myself in.
“Ah!” thought I, “now I can swan around Paris with impunity!”

Pride often comes before a fall, they say, and my thought came back to bite me on the bum a couple of hours later on the walk to L’Insitute du Monde Arabe to see the Hip Hop exhibition – the thought of which made me make this face:

But made Les make this face:


Ever the supportive and amenable travelling companion *cough* off we went in the 30 degree heat to learn about the history of Hippety Hoppity Hoo or some shit. Two metro rides later we arrived at Cardinal Lemoine and began the schlep to the final destination.

I enjoy ranting about abroad, which, I appreciate, could be misconstrued as a form of casual to moderate racism but the poor pedestrian is rarely considered when pavement works are being undertaken anywhere but Scotland, where, in my humble opinion, health and safety reign supreme. Or, if I was a cynical person, I could say supreme bordering on fascist. They’ve a much more laissez-faire approach to shit like that abroad, I find. It’s more of a passive aggressive “Well it’s your choice – you can either walk into the path of oncoming traffic, negotiating freshly dug holes and lumps of concrete or you can avail yourself of this handy pedestrian diversion we’ve arranged for you, which takes you 5 miles out of your way. We don’t care either way”, as they light up a Gauloise, because EVERYBODY smokes in France, even toddlers.

Half way down the street to the Arab Institute we encountered some confusing pavement works which just kinda cut off the pavement in front of us. There was a diversion of sorts in place, but by this time I was hallucinating Orangina and cold showers so decided to just climb over a stone wall to bypass the works. I overestimated my flexibility/height of the wall ratio and ended up, leg akimbo on a dyke, displaying my full toot to the man approaching. I don’t know why I’ve gone all coy and called it a toot, when I’ve been so gung-ho about saying vagina in previous blogs, but maybe I’m getting prissy in my old age.

I say I ‘displayed’ my full toot instead of ‘flashed’ because flashed makes it sound kind of saucy, which I can assure you it wasn’t. My pants had somehow sweatily worked their way up my bottom and were to all intents and purposes, cutting me in half. I couldn’t move back or forward so just stayed there for a while, leg akimbo, toot ahoy, shrugging gallically as if to say ‘Oui, c’est ma toot. Quelle surprise, non?’ I hope I’m the toast of France.

And finally,On the way back to the apartment, dying of thirst, I shoved my two euro in and this shit happened.

So near, and yet so far. I whimpered. I’m writing an angry email in my schoolgirl French to this lot:

Yeah so I got giddy on French Martinis (quelle surprise) (I’ll wager that if you ask for a French Martini in France they’d go “Mais ke-ske-say zees Martini Francaise? Je ne sais pas what you mean, madame. You are drunk, yes?” in the same way if you ask for sweet and sour chicken in oh I don’t know Beijing they’d look equally perplexed) (I love the smell of casual racism in the morning – I do apologise). 

So I got giddy on French Martinis and posted a Fitbit related blog and Les went “do you think that’s wise – blogging after French Martinis?” so I deleted it. It was very dull anyway and had my weight displayed for all to see (which is somewhere between 7 stone and 25 on a good day. No day’s a good day)

Good: did 10,003 steps yesterday. 

Bad: above average pastry consumption. . Drank les Martinis francaises. 

Even Tucker’s hungover this morning. Look.  

 

Every Little Helps. 

Inspired by David Sedaris’ article in the New Yorker of yesterblog, I acquired a Fitbit at the big Tesco on Thursday with my Clubcard points. The irony of this is not lost on me. These are the same Clubcard points I earned buying kettle chips, vodka and gossip magazines. Every little helps, right enough. I bet David Sedaris didn’t use his Clubcard points to buy his. 

I’m obsessed already, and proclaiming evangelically “THIS” I say while tapping the gizmo on my chubby wrist to make the wee lights flash “THIS little guy has changed my life”. Bold claim, that, since I once said the same thing about a mini deep fat fryer and look at me now, “no a pun o’ me hingin’ the right wye” as my granny used to say. 

I went for the basic model rather than the deluxe does-everything-short-of-doing-your-ironing one; I don’t need the added stress of monitoring my heartbeat as I’d only hyperfocus and think I was dying. I know my heart rate increases the minute I’m within a thirty mile radius of a Greggs, I don’t need an app to tell me that. 

Yesterday was my first full day of Fitbitting and it filled my day nicely. I was determined to achieve the recommended 10,000 steps, and even asked Les to wear it while she took Tucker out for a Glesgae widdle, so she could rack up some points on my behalf. She declined “It’s no a Tesco Clubcard doll”

Here! Observe my stats! 

  
But…on the downside…check my sleep…

 Restless 12 times and 4 hours sleep! I love sleeping! I’m not one of those freaks who doesn’t nap or yawn. I imagine there are freaks in the world who don’t need much sleep and just stand upright in a cupboard for seven hours a night waiting silently for morning to come but I’m not one of them. What sleep I did have last night was peppered with fevered dreams thus:  Steve Davis the snooker player was in it and he bought me a thing for my car. Then I had to sleep outside and Steve and I made a camp fire. Not a fire that went “Ooohhh shut that door” like gay seventies TV icon Larry Grayson but a fire, outside. Then the police came and pissed on my chips (figuratively not literally although anything’s possible in my weirdarse dreams at the moment) and made me put the fire out. 

Footnote apropos of shit-all: had a lovely dinner with great folk last night, lovingly prepared lovingly by lovely Jason, longtime friend of the lovely Fabulous One, and quite possibly one of the funniest and loveliest people I’ve ever met. Hiya Jason love! Tucker is very remorseful about your nose. :-/

Bring back the Royal Scot. 

It’s been a while. I’ve started several blogs and given up. I’ll trawl through the drafts folder later and see if there’s any sows’ ears I can fashion a silk purse from, blogwise. Don’t get your hopes up, mind. If you’ve other things to do by all means go ahead and do them. Unless it’s anything of a sexual nature, in which case I don’t want to know about it thank you very much, and certainly not on a school night. 

I’m heading out in a minute to have a denim frock taken up and in. I obsessively searched up and down the land (well, ASOS and Dorothy Perkins) for a denim frock suitable for sashaying around Paris on my forthcoming city break with the Fabulous One. 

Having searched the Internet to no avail, I found a “vintage” – and yes I’m rolling my eyes too – denim frock which I won for twelve quid on eBay. Victory is mine! Sadly when it arrived it looked like a sack o’ tatties on, and needs taken up a good six inches and nipped in at the waist to give me some form, which although currently ambiguous, will hopefully resemble female thereafter. So all in all it’ll end up a dear do what with all the modifications required. It’d be easier just to lose weight and be a normal shape but until they outlaw Empire Biscuits or make them a Class A drug I’m afraid I’ll keep poking them down my throat and on to my lardy arse. 

My next obsession is to find the perfect comfy shoe for stomping crabbitly round Paris in. I’m fancying a leopard print trainer. Well two, obviously, not just one. Let’s push the boat out and buy a pair eh? YOLO and all that. The search begins. I’m a size 6 if you’ve a mind to go a-googling on my behalf. 

(I’ve been out and am back again. Imagine a dreamy shimmery sequence here to indicate the passage of time)

I nipped in to Morrisons for various foodstuffs (Empire Biscuits and bread. Forgot the bread) and in the car park I encountered the biggest bastard seagull you ever did see. It just stood there looking at me like “What’re YOU looking at fatso? I can smell the Empire Biscuits in yer bag. Geez yin or yer gay dug gets it and I’ll make it look like a fuckin’ accident”. 

***Tourist Information***

“Come to Dumfries! Come to the fair Queen o’ the South where the seagulls are bigger than fat toddlers and will nick the Greggs sausage roll straight out of your hand without as much as a by your leave while they call you fatso and relentlessly bully you into handing over your Empire Biscuits”

While I’m obsessing about Empire Biscuits – do you remember when you were wee and you made Empire Biscuits with two Royal Scots, a daud o’ jam and a dollop of watery icing? Halcyon days. Whatever happened to the Royal Scot?  

  If Royal Scots were a relative they’d be your posh auntie who’s no really posh but married well and had delusions of grandeur and an astrakhan coat. 

Off to google leopard print trainers. Have I mentioned Empire Biscuits enough in this post? Hmmm.  Not said vagina for a while. Vagina. Boom.