Tightstober. 

Never mind your Stoptober. Those French Martinis won’t drink themselves you know. No it’s not Stoptober in this house. 

Tomorrow ushers in Tightstober. The first official day of tights. I’ll be rocking the triple gusset from now till May. Sad times. 

It’s also that time of year where, because I like to wander round the house in bare feet, I wish I had a jetpack so I could glide round the house a good inch off the ground  due to the ever present danger of spiders. 

It’s Spider City Arizona in here. Gigantospiders that move things around. I’m sure one has nicked my earrings because I’m buggered if I can find them. 

I hope I don’t have to make friends with it to get my earrings back. 

Anyway, Happy Tightstober, everyone. Here’s to droopy gussets. 

Fork ‘andles. 

I’m in trouble. 

Does anybody feel like ordering some Partylite candles? I promised to have a virtual Partylite party for somebody so they got discount or a guaranteed place in heaven or something but as usual the road to hell is paved with good intention and it’s now a month later and, true to form, I’ve done hee-haw about it except move the brochures around my kitchen table, tutting at them. I did halfheartedly take a brochure in to work but ruined my efforts by writing a creepy pleading whiny note on it which probably put people off, and only prompted some wag to write “fork handles!” on my Post-it note (I wish I’d invented them) which I then had to explain to the office youngs. 

Candles make a very acceptable gift and with Christmas just around the corner oh Christ I’m bored with this candle flogging. Look if you know me in real life, help a sister out and buy some shitting candles, okay? 

It’s no surprise that my illustrious career in financial services lasted exactly a year – the industry probably breathed a collective sigh of relief when I moved on, having perversely convinced my customer base that life was too short for life insurance and retirement planning. I don’t think I legitimately sold a single thing. 

But yeah candles are great. Woohoo. Let’s hear it for candles. Candles candles candles. Buy them. From me. I thank you. 

Things that make me make this face :-{

What is it with this ridiculousness?

  What thought process, on rifling through the detritus of the floordrobe, results in the decision to wear such an abomination?

“The weather’s a bit inbetweeny today – I think I’ll don the Gladiator sandaloots”

(for surely this must be the word for footwear that combines the leg coverage of a boot with the skeleton structure of a sandal).

My lip also curled at the boak inducing monthly showerplug unblocking procedure. Nothing gives me the dry boak more than finding myself ankle deep in standing water thirty seconds in to a shower.  I HATE THAT. Is that all MY HAIR snarled up in the plug hole or is it the hair of a thousand strangers rising up from the depths of the bowels of hell via a fatberg? Yes I’m guilty of slovenly housewifery but judge not, lest ye be judged. My fingers may have explored a few questionable orifices in their time (yes I’m getting that in there before anybody else does – and that’s not a euphemism) but there ain’t no way they’re exploring hair down a plug hole, daily.

On a positive note, here are my three things for which I’m grateful today:

  1. My replacement Fitbit arrived. Mason is back in the game! My stats are down to zero, which worried my pal Kate so much she asked if I’d finally forsaken my perfectly serviceable but less than aesthetically pleasing legs and taken to a mobility scooter.
  2. These flowers from Mrs T’baps. Awwww. That’s the second week running she’s brought me flowers. What’s she done?  She must’ve done something…
  3. Dancing round the kitchen with Mrs T’baps to Friday night Solar Radio, including this top tune from yesteryear – from the days when I could rock a leotard, footless tights and a circle skirt split to the waist up Coils bar in Dumfries of a weekend (with the exception of that ill-advised one shoulder neon pink leotard which precluded the wearing of a bra and gave me the look of an extra in Debbie Does Dallas or equiv 70s soft porn movie.

Ps I haven’t checked that YouTube link because Mrs T is snoring gently beside me. If it turns out to be Pinky and Perky oinking their way through a medley of Beatles hits I do apologise – it should be Narada Michael Walden I Shoulda Loved Ya. 

Peace and love to you all.

PPS – oh for fucksake. It’s been brought to my attention that there’s no like button on the blog since my last plitter. If you want to express your like for this post hit me up on the Twitter or the Facebook. I crave your approval.

PPPS – now fixed. Thank you Sharon Halliday. Sharon’s brilliant company Infinite Eye will cater for all your web design needs x

Three little things…

In a (probably vain) attempt to adopt a more positive attitude to life and shit, I decided to force myself to do the three things I’m grateful for daily thingummy. Or should that read three things for which I’m grateful, daily? 

Whatever the syntax, it’s been proven, possibly by some tryhard boffin who secured a squillion Euro of European funding, that it takes 21 days to rewire the brain from being a compulsive neggypants to being the life and soul of every party and general distributor of joy with a kind word for everyone.

As I sit here, tapping my foot to the hypnotising rhythm of the dishwasher as the revolving spray arm thing repeatedly hits a plate that’s been carelessly stacked but I’ve been too lazy to get up and fix, I can’t help but notice that I haven’t fared too well in the gratitude challenge. I may of course be overthinking it. I’m assuming counting things like your children, your lover/partner, your dog, crisps, fags, nail polish and a supporting bra aren’t permissible or noteworthy . I imagine it’s all about intangibles: the wind in your hair, a baby’s laugh, the smell of clean washing and so on and so forth.

Thus far, as in since I started this on Monday, I’ve come up with the following:

  1. I haven’t killed anybody
  2. I’m still alive
  3. I haven’t been sacked.
  4. The restorative powers of a nice cup of tea
  5. Amazon Prime. It’s the shit! Nearly-instant gratification!
  6. Tucker’s tricks – especially the one where I shoot him going pcchhh and he verrrry slowly and verrrrry grudgingly (he’s got his eyes on the prize – a gravy bone) “dies”  a hilarious spaghetti western style death, slowly rolling on to his back, bandy black legs akimbo. That’s ma boy!
  7. Nurofen Plus. The self diagnosed broken toe’s playing up again. Hypochondria City Arifreakinzona.
  8. The ‘block this caller’ function on my phone. Cold callers are getting more and more devious. They make it look like they’re calling from a quasi-familiar number:  I had three calls in a row yesterday from Castle Douglas, Edinburgh and Annan respectively (none of which I answered, obviously, on account of my surly nature and lack of desire to speak on the phone unless it’s work related or it’s to inform me that I’ve won a holiday in the Bahamas)
  9. The sun. Giver of life, distributor of vitamin D, causer of good moods, preventor of tights wearing (I haven’t rocked the dreaded triple gusset since March), marker of time and all round good guy. I love you, man.

That’s it. I’m spent.

The weekend approacheth. Peace and love.

Because it’s there. 

So I went to see Everest in 3D last night. Because it was there. At the cinema, in case clarification is required: I didn’t schlep to the foothills of the Himalayas after work yesterday, and certainly not with these inappropriately shod feet.

The fact that I went to the pictures at all is an achievement in itself. I hardly dared show face after the brouhaha I caused on Facebook last year when I inadvertently caused a diplomatic incident by daring to criticise the what you might call aesthetic of Dumfries Cinema through the Odeon’s global Facebook page. I was Dumfries’ answer to Cat Bin Lady (remember her?) for a good week. That post got a gazillion comments, not all of them supportive or complementary including one that made me lol: “No way Lynsdey (sic), that’s fukin wyd lyke”, which for the benefit of my foreign readers i.e anyone outside the burgh of Dumfries translates as “For goodness sake Lindsey, how very dare you criticise our local cinema: you’re a damn fool”.

I hardly dared venture out of the house for a good month after that, and the Big Tesco was out of bounds, with parents cuddling their children closer if they glimpsed me in the savoury snacks aisle (which, after I’m dead will be renamed The Tigerbaps Memorial Aisle, I hope) as their children pointed and screamed “Mummy that’s that scary lady off the internet, she’s stealing all the Cheesy Wotsits!” and the terrified mothers would reply “Run, Lambrusco-Chardonnay! Run like the wind! Let her have the Cheesy Wotsits! They’re only 100 calories a pack, she’ll never survive on one multipack and she looks like she’s hangry!”

So child number two and I scaled the north face of the Odeon in our 3D glasses and settled in to watch Jake Gyllenhal et al shout inaudible dialogue to each other up the Khyber Pass (I know that’s not Everest, I’m employing a literary device called talking shite). I’m no Barry Norman and rarely have well thought through opinions about anything but I’d give it an 8 out of 10. An enjoyable romp, despite Kiera Knightley’s acting chin putting in the odd appearance.

It left me feeling wistful though. Wistful that I’ll never climb Everest. I have previous with mountains. I climbed Criffel a few years ago https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Criffel without supplemental oxygen, in Clarks trainers, leggings, an I Heart NYC hoodie splattered with the tears of a mild hangover and midge repellant. I felt like quite the conquering hero. There wasn’t even a gift shop or a cup of tea at the summit. That went straight on the old cv. It demonstrates resilience and stamina, doesn’t it?


A picture of cheese named after my nemesis. Arguably and marginally more interesting than a picture of a hill.

It’s also arguably and marginally more interesting than me looking windswept and Ken Doddish atop a hill.

Lists. Numbered. Kinda. 

Things I don’t get:

  1. “Crumbed” ham. At no point ever in my life have I a) witnessed the following exchange:

Customer: “I’d like a ham sandwich please”

Waiter: “Certainly sir, coming right up”

Customer: “Oh wait – I want the ham with the weird sludgy yellow shit round the outside”

Waiter: “Ah sorry sir we’re fresh out of crumbed ham”

Customer exits stage left. 

Or b) chosen ham with the weird sludgy yellow shit round the outside over eg naked ham. 

  1. (This should be 2 not 1 but the numbering has gone all arse over tit) Black pudding. It’s solidified blood and fat! Who decided that was a thing! 
  2. (This should be 3 but see 2 above) People who pay things on credit cards then pay it off at the end of the month. 
  3. (Again – numbering – hellooooo) Characters in TV programmes who put their kids to bed and look back fondly at the child as they switch the light off and leave the room. And the child always falls asleep IMMEDIATELY. Mine never did that. Even if I looked back fondly at them which would only have happened if I’d been drinking or that time I got the good sleeping pills off the doc and floated around the house smiling beatifically at everything including piles of ironing. That was before docs got prissy about giving out the good shit. 
  4. (Or 5. Whatever) Oh that’s made me think about ironing. Yuck. I don’t iron. I just flap things around or stick them in the tumble drier with an ice cube. 

That’s all I’ve got. I’m a martyr to this toothache. I’m delirious with the pain. The broken toe has made a miraculous recovery, though, so swings and roundabouts innit. 

When will I be famous, damn you (does that need a question mark?)

Here’s a round up of news and bits and bobs

  1. Stubbed my toe on a bed this week and self diagnosed a broken toe. I didn’t feel I should bother anybody to have it X-Rayd or whatever the past participle of X-Ray is. Apparently there’s not much they do for a broken toe but I feel I should report it to SOMEBODY. Surely it should be recorded somewhere in my medical notes if for no other reason than it’s the equivalent of a note from my mum in case I’m asked to do anything vaguely active or sociable? It’s my get out of jail card for the foreseeable future for chrissake. Of course this happened on the day I had to schlep round Glasgow for a conference. Of course it did. 
  2. I’m five hours away from the end of an eBay selling sesh and gawwwwd what a RUSH! But if I ever get the look of a woman who’s about to buy her umpteenth pair of wedge/platform or indeed even “flatform” sandals please feel free to rugby tackle me to the ground because I can’t walk in the buggers. Last weekend’s baffling “possession-by-a-domestic-goddess” day found me rootling in cupboards, purging them of several pairs of the aforementioned which are now five hours away from a new pair of feet. I enjoy the adrenaline rush of eBay but the effort versus return ratio is at best questionable. All that packing and posting nonsense saps me of energy. 
  3. Not that I’m under any illusions about my blogging ability (she said, with slightly faux modesty) but I note other bloggers have hundreds of followers and comments. I’m wondering if I’m missing a trick – is there a dark web of blogging I should be on to gain readers and popularity? I rarely get comments and family doesn’t count. I don’t have a theme in mind when I write this stuff – it’s stream of consciousness stuff and I’ll be damned if I’ll compromise my non-existent creative integrity to follow any “rules” damn you. Would it kill one of you to share/comment on/generally big up my bloggings? People get book deals for this stuff you know and due to my fiscal imprudence I’m pinning my retirement hopes on fame and wealth coming late in life.  
  4. For no good reason, except the cute dog factor, here’s me and my boy, having a morning snuggle.    You’ll note that I bear no resemblance to the Tigerbaps in my profile pic. As well as having had a veritable raft of hair and makeup artistes weave their magic that day,  I applied a veritable mille feuille of filters to the profile pic. (I stole that mille feuille of filters phrase from The Guyliner, a fine blogger of some note)
  5. I’ve lost my coffee and bacon sandwich making mojo. Am I mysteriously and miraculously pregnant? Everything tastes weird. 

In summary then, go forth and make me famous. 

Sheep’s Head Broth? No thanks. 

I seized a moment of domestic motivation to tidy some drawers and found a couple of ancient recipe books. Here’s a recipe for ye oldde lettyce and tomattoe saladde, should you be stumped for such a tricksy recipe at any time.   

Additionally, if you’ve a sheep’s head lurking in the fridge, which I sincerely doubt, unless you’re Brett Easton Ellis, you may want to get on this recipe toot sweet before the head reaches its use by date. Note advice re brains. 

Similarly if you’ve any balls that require to be Westphalia’d, look no further. I wasn’t interested until I read “fry in smoking hot fat”. Phwoarrr. The finest words in the English language, right there. 

   

Now that those pesky nights are drawing in, and we’re all hunkering down for the worst winter in living memory, as predicted every fucking year since the year dot by the harbingers of doom at the Daily Express, my arguably limited attention span turns to all things craft. Thus, this morning I’m pickling beetroot like a wummin possessed. I’m not overly keen on pickling things, it conjures up unwanted images of deformed fetuses in jars in a mad scientist’s laboratory…
 
…and I’m revisiting the tank top knitting of yore… 

 

The tank top pictured above, for one fine day it may well be recognised as a tank top, is you may recall, destined for the torso of Mrs Tigerbaps. It’ll be ready by the time we’re 70 (hypothetically, we’re 12 years apart). She’ll wear it though, because she loves me too much to argue, and who wouldn’t – I’m a picture of loveliness this morning with my beetroot stained hands and Primark animal print dressing gown. 

And with that I bid you a good day. There’s work to be done. Well, I say done, I’ll never complete any of the above, but it keeps me busy and out of trouble. Kinda. 

We’re all Jocky Wilson’s bairns. 

  

Guys, guys, guys…
I’ve seen and heard some crazy shit spouted these past few days. Sympathy and desire to help isn’t mutually exclusive. We can feel empathy and solidarity with more than one cause at a time. We’re just human beings on an insignificant lump of rock circling an insignificant star. Above all though – unless that Horizon programme (something about multiverses and quantum physics) the other night is right – we’re all just accidents of birth – I’m glad I could spend my Friday night lying around in my pants post-Chinese takeaway with somebody I love (not Tucker, but I love him too), not (overly) worrying about my children’s or my own safety and not pushing a buggy with a sleeping baby and a crying four year old for eight hours through an entire country, which sounds like it’s a shitty made up thing from hell somebody would do for charity with a massive support team following on, but sadly isn’t. 

Now let’s stop this nonsense and just get on with being good people. I know you’re thinking “Christ she’s right you know; I’ve been a damn fool”. 

To quote a hilarious friend: 

We’re all Jocky Wilson’s bairns.

 

See picture above. Imagine that jumping on your bones every night. Brrrr. 

Rest in power, Jocky. 

Peace and love. 

Twelve monkeys 

Well I’ve had quite the lovely few days, despite the dental issue earlier in the week which foreshadowed my weekend. Teeth and matters of the mouth have loomed large this past year. I realise I’m not getting any younger but must bits and bobs keep falling off/breaking/letting me down?

 The weird antibiotics were like a psychotropic substance and made me a bit loopy (-er than usual) and of all the antibiotics in the world these were the ones that you really can’t drink alcohol with while taking.  Now…despite not being too arsed about alcohol generally this fact made me want to ramraid an Oddbins and drink everything therein, including the fabric conditioner and washing up liquid, if they had any. 

Oh hang on. University Challenge has just come on – I need to go and shout “Oscar Wilde!” at the telly because eventually that’ll be the right answer to something, in the same way twelve monkeys in a field with typewriters would eventually, given infinite time, bash out the complete work of William Shakespeare. I’m not clear about the significance of the field. Actually I may have completely misquoted that theorem, if that’s what it’s called. 

Right I’m back. I kinda forgot I’d been writing this and wandered off after University Challenge to tidy my handbag, which yielded £3.50 in loose change. I don’t know about you but it’s so rare that I use cash that I get panicky when I’m handed change and end up just throwing it in the handbag of doom. It annoys me but I’m powerless to stop doing it, like eating Cadbury’s chocolate fingers on my nocturnal wanderings. 

Speaking of nocturnal affairs, myself and Mrs Tigerbaps seem to be sleeping a lot these days. Is that acceptable? We turned in at 9:15 on Saturday night despite earlier napping, and slept like babies. Worried, I asked her if she thought this was wrong. Surely we should be – oh I don’t know – knitting hats for penguins in our downtime or some such worthy pursuit. Mrs ‘baps replied thus: 

“But we’re nearly pensioners, Linds”

How dare she! The cheek of it! Actually that’s probably why bits of me keep falling off or breaking. 

I’ve several blog posts (350) in draft form. I promise to revisit them, sort the wheat from the chaff, and post them for either your enjoyment or your screenshotting and sending to your pals with a “who does she think she is, writing a blog, thinking she’s it, oversharing”. 

Not that I’ve ever screenshotted anything and bitchily sent it over the airwaves to mock you. No no no.