Coupled with my crippling fear of dropping my car keys down a drain, (I might just pop them down a drain one of these days just to get the ensuing bloody drama over with since, according to Susan Jeffers way back in 1987 we’re all supposed to Feel The Fear And Do It Anyway, although I doubt my menopausal neuroses and intrusive thoughts** are what she had in mind when she sat down at her Olivetti. And how do you write a book with nothing more than a sentence to go on? Surely it’s an easy enough concept to grasp without writing a bloody book about it eg:

Person: “I’m scared of public speaking”

Susan Jeffers: “Oh don’t be daft – feel the fear and do it anyway”

Person: “Oh okay”

How can a person put a whole book’s worth of meat on to the bones of a sentence? 

 So coupled with keys down drains fear,  I  also now suffer from FOBO. FOBO, or Fear Of Being Offline, is the latest acronym to become adopted and assimilated into the self-centred lexicon of made-up things from which technologically dependent tits like me can say they suffer. 

My FOBO makes me pick up my phone and do a bleary-eyed sweep of all my social media accounts (and I’ve got them ALL)  if I wake up during the night. My FOBO makes me fire up the iPad as soon as I get in from work, lie on my bed and fake-buy things I don’t need*. My FOBO makes me sleep with seventy gadgets. 

The thing is, I can’t remember how I filled my time pre-Internet. I must’ve spent hours looking at the underwear pages of catalogues and reading the backs of cereal packets. I can’t remember doing much else. I certainly didn’t have any improving hobbies or worthy pursuits beyond sorting my nail polish collection and smoking. 

*fake-buying is the process of spending two hours on eg ASOS, adding £400 worth of stuff to a virtual basket, then simply moving on to eg the Dorothy Perkins website and starting the process again, without buying a damned thing. I’m singlehandedly responsible for the state of the economy, quantitative easing and various other economic terminologies and crises I don’t fully understand. I could always google them, I suppose. 

** I had a new intrusive thought last week. I was coming in from a 9pm fag at the back door scenario and wondered what it would be like if I shut my fingers in the back door which is about six inches thick and would survive a nuclear blast. I even did a wee heebyjeeby shudder at the thought of it. I’ve no idea why I’m confessing this. 

New feature: 

Shut The Fuck Up And Take My Bloody Mone

As regular readers may be aware, Tatty Devine and I – we got previous, but heavens to Betsy look at this!  I’m willing to forgive them Dinosaur Necklace-gate for this conversation starter… 
OOOOOOHHHH!!! Pretty though, innit?

Wednesday. Well it can shit off. 

Woke up this morning full of fury-by-proxy so decided to shake it off and approach Wednesday with a positive mental attitude.  I’m ending it with pizza induced heartburn straight from the bowels of HELL and a massive sad about elephants. (See Storyville: Circus Elephant Rampage, BBC Four). 

Good things about Wednesday: *tumbleweed*

Rubbish things about Wednesday: Arrogant drivers

Ungrateful wretches

Lazy buggers

Heartburn inducing pizza

The office – for want of a better word – “fatwa” on confectionery. 

The Next Directory the size and girth of a plump toddler, left on my doorstep, unbidden. 

My face, which by 9:10am resembled a well slapped arse. 


Lessons learned:

Don’t eat pizza, especially in a hurry. 

Never agree to office food related sanctions. 

Tell Next to shit off ASAP. 

Avoid people at all costs. Especially the kind in cars. 

Apply more makeup to disguise scowly slapped arse face which inevitably reveals itself. 

Don’t watch programmes about elephants. 

It’s not all about Pufflings. 

Finally! Managed to upload all 3000 pics from my iPhone to iCloud which optimised the space on the iPhone which in turn allowed me to update the software to iOSwhatever and now I can’t remember why I was so desperate to get iOSwhatever in the first place. I probably just had iOS envy. I think I’ve still got baby brain, and the baby is nearly 25. 
You might ask how/why I have 3000 pictures on my iPhone and that would be a perfectly valid question. 2000 of them are screenshotted recipes for things I’ll never make and the rest are variously interesting clouds, my car, Tucker and selfies of me (who else would they be selfies of?) Iooking gormless, and photos of the shopping lists on my fridge (it’s black, so I cleverly use chalk pens to scrawl eg “bog roll” “Femfresh” and other front and back bottom related items on it)

In other exciting news I took delivery of a Tesco shop on Friday night. At least it actually arrived this time. The last time I did one I spent the whole two hour delivery slot with my nose pressed against the living room window thinking “any minute now…anyyyyy minute nnnnnowwww…” Alas t’was all in vain. No Tesco van. Spoiling for a fight, I crabbitly fired up the laptop to check I’d picked the right delivery slot and realised that the screen was stuck on one of the five thousand layers of payment authorisation. You can imagine the ensuing rage. I’m sick of living in this nanny state. Stop the world! I want off! I want to live in a world where I can abuse over the counter medication with impunity! I want to mix ‘n’ match my over the counter pharmaceuticals with my prescription pharmaceuticals without some spotty youth going “are you on any other medication?” I always answer no because frankly we don’t have all day and HELLOOOO I HAVE DR GOOGLE ON SPEED DIAL HONEY AND I’M NOT AFRAID TO CONSULT HIM SO POINT BEING I’VE DONE MY RESEARCH SO HAND OVER THE GOODS AND TAKE MY MONEY, SPOTTY. I want to take codeine based products for more than three days! I want to use my bank card to buy stuff I don’t need on dodgy websites and to hell with the consequences! I want to buy alcohol 24/7 and I don’t even drink that often! But I reserve the fucking right to. 
My shopping this week wasn’t without issue though, and caused the offspring to exclaim “mum, you’ve got wipes here for every orifice!” That’s as maybe, daughter, but personal hygiene is not something one can afford to be parsimonious about. 
For some reason I’d also ordered two massive bags of potatoes, a MASSIVE loaf, and two of the biggest mangos I have personally ever clapped eyes on, which of course I then used as comedy boobs because you should always leave them with a laugh. The Tesco Man tripped over an equally shocked Tucker in his rush to get out and left a Tesco Man shaped hole in the front door as he went through it without opening it. 
If anybody needs potatoes, knock twice at the Shagger’s Glint and ask for Miss Baps. You’ll have to just shout knock knock though until I get the hole in the door repaired. (The Shagger’s Glint is what the house would be called if I ran it as a Bed and Breakfast, we decided, although it’s very theoretical that I’d ever do that given my slovenly approach to housewifery). The provenance of the name Shagger’s Glint isn’t fit for publication here (lawsuit and slander/libel waiting to happen) so don’t ask, thank you. 
Right, that’s enough nonsense for today. I’m off to fester some more about how disproportionately irked I am at the great passive aggressive cardigan-off-back-of-chair removing incident of yore. Still seething. 
Things I know today that I didn’t know yesterday: a baby Puffin is called a Puffling! Awwww.

Drowning in a sea of clutter. 

I read an article about decluttering by some smartarse Japanese bird this morning. Well, I say I read it, I sort of skimmed it. Skimmed it and saved it for future reading. I don’t know why I didn’t just read it there and then, but my life’s full of saved links for future reading, unread books, unfinished knitting, carrier bags of random shit and drawers full of guilt and life admin (clusterfuck of) waiting to pounce the minute the fresh air hits them. Ugh.

I need to revisit the mindfulness thing. I need to learn how to live in the moment instead of constantly thinking I should be doing something else. I never actually achieve anything unless it’s to do with food or buying makeup, preferring instead to store things away, either mentally or physically, for a future time that never comes. Is it just me?

The aforementioned Japanese bird, whose name is in fact Marie Kondo, so I’ll do her the service of using it, has written this book. I don’t know how she found the time. Surely she has fags to smoke at the back door and makeup to buy? I know the bare bones of how she recommends we declutter, but not the detail, which sums me up really. Something about black bin bags,  decluttering by category instead of room and ditching anything that doesn’t make you feel joyful when it’s in your hands. (Oh, so many jokes!)  I visualise her sitting in her neat, minimalist Tokyo apartment drumming her fingers on the arm of her neat chair, wondering what she did with that battery operated twirling spaghetti fork she ruthlessly decluttered from her kitchen rummage drawer, before One-Clicking another one from Amazon. You find that happens after a massive tidy – you suddenly need the thing you hadn’t used for ten years.

I’m trying to chuck out a thing a day. I’ve stuff I haven’t unpacked since I moved here last February. Boxes full of old toot I’ll never need or use, including fancy vintage china cups and saucers and a collection of empty DVD boxes. You’d think these things would be first to go but no. Today I’ve chucked out two baggy old cardigans and an assortment of knitting wool. Unfortunately I received a new purple cardigan in the post today so it’s two steps forward one back. I hereby promise not to purchase any more wool though. I’ve a seventies tank top to finish which I enthusiastically started knitting for Les but I did three rows and got bored with the slow progress. I suspect she’s secretly dreading that I ever actually finish it and she has to wear it. It’s taking so long though! Why’s she not the size of a borrower instead of a big Amazonian with massive feet? (I merely mention her massive feet because feet are an indicator of body size, are they not?)

On the subject of knitting (I know this blog post is all over the bloody place and full of brackets, shoddy grammar and poor sentence construction but who cares?) I knitted a tea cosy that was supposed to look like a cupcake a while ago. I don’t know why –  I don’t own a teapot. When it was finished it resembled a large pendulous breast instead of a cupcake. Let’s all pray that Les’s tank top doesn’t turn out like that. Even if it does, she’ll bloody well wear it and she’ll damn well look happy about it too. 

For your Wednesday enjoyment, here’s Tucker modelling the tit tea cosy. I found it during the decluttering. 


Just wash the bloody cups already. 

Whilst I appreciate I should be asleep after today’s horrific dental shenanigans which have left me an emotional wreck and a husk of a woman, (I’ve spent most of today in a fug of Nurofen Plus, hallucinating pastry products, dropping pens and forgetting what I was going to say right in the middle of a sentence, which would be annoying any time but especially annoying when one has a public duty to perform, (she said, snootily)), I stopped by to post this link to a funny blog which has made me cackle for the past 27 minutes precisely. 

Below, for what I hope is your enjoyment, is the aforementioned funny blog. The subject of this particular post is the scourge of the shared kitchen facilities office – the dreaded all-staff passive aggressive “state of the kitchen” email, the receipt of which in my inbox makes me roll my eyes so far up I can see out of the back of my head and most of which usually contain the line “you wouldn’t leave your own kitchen like this at home” which makes me lol because I definitely would. And don’t look under my bed because I’m growing my own fur coat on an assortment of cups at various stages of coffee-dregs putrefaction. If pressed, I’ll claim it’s an experiment.

Click here for the lols about cups
And this might be the Nurofen Plus talking but instead of firing off an email to all and sundry I’d just tidy the bloody kitchen. If you’ve got time to send an email you’ve got time to tidy the effing kitchen. Boom. 

Sunday confessional. 

I really wish I hadn’t told the story today about that time I blurted “Aww you’re a handsome big boy, aren’t you!” when I bumped into a friend with her son whom I’d never met before, then later realising it was in fact her older, married brother, which accounted for the bemused looks. The situation wasn’t helped by my wearing a low cut dress, tits everywhere, with a massive bruise of dubious drunken origin on one tit. 

Boy, did I feel stupid. 

I really wish I hadn’t told that story today because now I can’t sleep for cringing and thinking about it. Or the other way round, obviously, because you can’t cringe about something before you’ve even thought about it. It’s physics or something. Cause and effect, yo. 

And now the stress of this memory has brought on a massive hot flush, ensuring further insomnia. I’m hoping that the two hour nap I enjoyed earlier when I fell asleep listening to Freddie Flintoff on Desert Island Discs (which was surprisingly good but I still fell asleep just before his fifth selection as is customary when listening to DID) will stand me in good stead tomorrow when I’m slabbering makeup on my crabbit, sheet-marked face and trying to get the wings of my eyeliner even. 

Fallow period. 

I’ve dried up. I’m going through a fallow period, blogwise. I wish I could say I’m too busy solving world hunger/doing humanitarian work in war torn countries/knitting hats* for premature baby orang-utans to blog but actually I’ve been mostly just playing online Scrabble, smoking the odd fagatthebackdoor and hunched over the laptop for hours on end salivating over the MAC website searching in vain for THE matte pinky brown lipstick (which, as I’ve written that, sounds like I’ve just described my natural lip colour but anyway HERE, MAC, SHUT UP AND TAKE MY BLOODY MONEY)

I’ve around twenty blog posts in various stages of draftness, all abandoned after the muse refused to descend beyond the opening paragraph. Bastard fickle muses! I’ll revisit them later tonight or at some point over the weekend. Expect a flurry! Expect a McFlurry! (If I worked in McDonalds I’d be constantly hanging around the machine that dispenses the add-ins for McFlurries – Smarties, smooshed up Cadbury’s Creme Eggs and the like, waiting for an opportunity to stick my mouth under it. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that’s on my bucket list)

*thank you @wombat37 for spotting my typo! Duly fixed x