Dreading the thing. 

No matter how much you’re dreading a thing, it’ll soon pass. That’s as true as death and taxes. (Unless it’s like a reaaaaally long prison sentence or having someone talk you through their holiday snaps – then time drags like buggery and sometimes even goes into reverse). 

You might be wondering why I’ve gone all philosophical all of a sudden. You might not. But I’ll tell you anyway – I’ve the rescheduled root canal tomorrow at 1120. 

To say I’m dreading it is an understatement. I can’t cancel it, due to arseholery of the universe which continues to conspire against me and the fact that it’s already been postponed by the dentist once and took weeks to fit me in again. 

Did you watch Bake Off tonight? It was bread week, which had the goatbeast Paul Hollywood all a-quiver, chewing on bits of bread with narrowed eyes and spouting pseudo-scientific bread making related shite. The mere watching of bread week gave me the yeast bloat. I might pretend I’m gluten intolerant and grow a beard, which won’t be much of a stretch if the number of times I can be found stabbing crabbitly at my chin with tweezers is anything to go by. 

When will this boys with beards thing end? It’s lasted a while. It might be like leggings and never go away. It’s nature’s way. If we women didn’t have leggings we’d have eff all to wear. We’d be naked from the waist down. Nature doesn’t want that. Neither does it want hordes of single clean shaven boys swanning around looking for someone to mate with because they’ve been dumped by girlfriends who finally saw what was under that beard and it wasn’t pretty. 

Wish me luck tomorrow and remind me to put the bin out tomorrow night. 

I went to Poundland today to purchase a ball-flinger thing for Tucker. I bought him one last week and he loved it so much he nearly wagged his tail off. It only costs a pound, funnily enough. 

The only problem with the ball-flinger, apart from me going – ‘Are you ready Tucker? Are you ready? Are you? Here we go…ONE…TWO…THREE…WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!” as I launch it straight up into the flight path of the Glasgow to London shuttle, much to Tucker’s bemusement as he vainly attempts to follow the trajectory – is the quality of the tennis ball one flings with the ball-flinger. Tucker enjoys eating the fluff clean off tennis balls which converts into neon poop approximately 24 hours later. This means the ball dies before the flinger. Ergo, I return to Poundland, and so the circle of life continues. 

Whilst waiting patiently in the Poundland queue –approximately six deep and thus hardly Disneyland standards – I witnessed tutting and sighing from the people in front, coupled with “EXCUSE ME – CAN YOU NOT OPEN ANOTHER TILL?” hollered at the staff on the two tills. At lunchtime. When people have lunch. Including retail staff. Complaining in Poundland about anything is the lowest of the bloody low. Go to M&S and have a nice chat with the cashier there while she thanks you for waiting a nanosecond and comments on the colour of the pants you’re buying –“These won’t stay white long, will they?” – if you’re not happy to wait for four minutes in Poundland, queuing to pay for your things. Your things that cost a pound. Seriously though. That irked me today. 

I totally understand that shops are busy at lunchtimes and that staff need to eat too. And I’m fine with that, because I’m a reasonable person. Pharmacists though. They’re another story. Nothing riles me more than “The dispensary is closed due to pharmacist’s lunch break”. That totally pisses me off. Christ. Plan ahead. Bring a sandwich and eat it under the counter. Selfish gits. 

Phoooooeeeee I’ve been terribly flighty and flibbertygibetty these past few days. I’m aware I’ve been behaving like one of those menopausal women I used to mock and loathe when I was 18 and in the prime of my menstrual life with a presumably non-atrophying vagina, and working in the Post Office Counter (in the good old days when Post Offices did ALL the transactions including arranging international phone calls from public phone boxes which required the logistical skills of NASA and the patience of eg the Dalai Lama neither of which I possessed because I was constantly hungover “oh there’s someone in the phone box? Well just press your nose against the glass and tell them to hurry the fuck up because it’s my tea break in ten minutes and I’ve asked Violet to keep me a bacon roll to cure this throbbing hangy which won’t eat itself you know”).

I don’t know why I’m more flibbertygibetty some days than others. There’s no rhyme nor reason, so of course we claim it’s hormonal, but I do know that the less stupid I try to be the more stupid I end up being.
In other equally enthralling news, things that irked me today:

  • I read a thing where somebody had written phone as ‘phone. Oh shit off. We know it’s a contraction of telephone and this isn’t 1950, so stop writing like a twat.
  • My Kitkat melted in the car.
  • Handbag related stress. I nearly flipped my lid trying to locate an inhaler in my handbag after choking on an inhaled toast crumb.
  • Having to buy cheap itchy tights in a Spar after arriving at work and looking down to see a pair of orange streaky legs poking down following yesterday’s attempt at fake tanning.
  • The barefaced lie that is a pair of tights labelled M/L. Exhibit A- my droopy gusset.
  • Voicemail from doctor’s surgery at 9am asking me to ring them back. WHAT?! WHY?! AM I DYING??
  • Finding out that my iCloud account has developed self-awareness and took it upon itself to email every fucker I know in the world – including the doctor’s surgery. For fuckSAKE. This is our future. Our email accounts become sentient beings with free will.
  • Coming home feeling maudlin and looking forward to a wee nana nap until nap plan foiled by noisy hedge trimmer next door. I loathe noise. This includes people who talk too much. Anything after “hello” is generally “too much”.

Things I’ve been grateful for today:

  • Sunshine. Simple pleasures.
  • Eating gravy with a spoon.
  • Tucker post-shower, smelling less like horseshit, and all ‘I’ve just washed my hair and can’t do a thing with it’ fluffy.
  • A last minute dash to Debenhams for foundation that ended with a bag full of samples from the Clarins counter to which I shall definitely return to purchase. I do enjoy good customer service.
  • A satisfactory cappuccino.
  • Seeing sun dogs in the evening sky.  One either side of the sun, as is customary with parhelia.

Happy Tuesday when it comes. Remind me to tell you about my root canal.

I’ve been busy. 

I just typed “apologies for dearth of blogging” and made myself chuckle. I always chuckle when I read “apologies for not blogging for a while” on blogs, as if everyone’s hanging on to sanity by their fingertips, waiting for the next pronouncement, yet here I am apologising for dearth of blogging. Truth is, I’ve been so busy. I’m not sure what I’ve been busy with – mostly staring at my phone scrolling through social media feeds and of course working to keep Scotland’s economy buoyant, both directly and indirectly through gainful employment and online shopping (four bras, a tartan frock that turned out to be indecently short so has been repurposed as a top to avoid sending back because hello Post Office anxiety, three fancy new holders for the Fitbit, a book I read years ago and gave to a charity shop then recently decided I wanted to read again so purchased it second hand on Amazon for a tenner and is probably my original book dammit to hell in a handcart, a plethora of snake oil anti-ageing remedies and of course more MAC cosmetics than you can shake a stick at, egged on by daughter the makeup artist). 

There’s been the usual navel gazing of course, induced by the shitawful July/August weather. The sun shone on Saturday though, which, if I wasn’t such a heathen atheist, I would say was timely divine intervention for the gorgeous wedding of the lovely Scott and Jill, which I was fortunate enough to attend, done up like a fish supper, thus, as my granny used to say. 

Such a beautiful wedding and such a lovely way to spend a Saturday, unlike Sunday which consisted mainly of moping and picking up Tucker’s hot poops, alarmingly neon green and yellow with the fluff he’d chewed off his squeaky toy bone. I can think of nicer ways to spend a Sunday. 

Didn’t see the current* Mrs Tigerbaps this weekend, much to our mutual disappointment I’m sure, although I’m quietly confident that she limped through her weekend with aplomb, despite not being privy to my fervent chin tweezing and scowling at proffered cups of tea that don’t come up to my internationally accepted tea shade chart standards. 

*I say current Mrs Tigerbaps in revenge for her use of the word current in relation to a reference to me – the current Mrs Fabulous – in HER shitty blog. It’s the suggestion of impermanence I resent. It kept me on my toes though. I’m all sweetness and light now. It won’t last, mind.

Check out her musings at https://fabulousles.wordpress.com/2015/08/07/cilla/

But come back here. Don’t like her more than me. I’ll make you a cake. I’ll babysit your children. Anything. Just like me.