No bloggings have been forthcoming from my brain this week. My creative juices have clearly dried up. Bloody menopause. (That’s an oxymoron innit?)
I had a quietish weekend last weekend (blighted with the lurgy and the broken toe) which, although not entirely unwelcome, meant that the life admin (I can’t use the word clusterf*ck any more) has been more or less ignored, except for the cancellation of my BT phone/broadband/tv package. Yes! I emerged triumphant from the “can I ask you why you’re leaving us?” to which I replied curtly “I’ve gone back to Sky” and her face was shut. Or it was, after the usual bargaining banter. It was half hearted banter – she wasn’t exactly the Archbishop of Banterbury – but I deftly lobbed back her offers of discounts and extra channels with all the skill of a young Bjorn Borg (a seventies tennis idol whose flowing blond locks made me pore over my dad’s encyclopaedia (they taught me everything I knew about everything, alphabetically. I could’ve run a small country when I was 10) until I learned all the rules of a tennis match) until, exhausted, she gave up. “We’ll need all your equipment back” was her parting shot. I thought that was pretty lame, really. She can have her shitty Humax box back, complete with the two years of dust which has settled atop it. It made me think of engagement rings given back after a betrothal, only this ring is an Eluzabeth Duke at Argos diamonique ring of a TV/Broadband/Phone package.
We wished each other well, promised to stay friends, did the “you put the phone down first” “No, YOU hang up” and so on and so forth until she hung up. I muttered “aye they’re no interested when you’re leaving them, they cannae get off the phone quick enough” when I realised she hadn’t hung up at all so I just burned the house down, changed my identity and ran away, like the snivelling coward I am.
Good news is I’m now watching box sets on demand like a woman possessed including Dominic West in a puzzling told-in-flashback thing called The Affair in which he seems to be having The Affair with some nutter with a top lip like a duck. I’ve a feeling it won’t end well if the twelve episodes left to watch are anything to go by. And Dominic West will always be Fred West to me after his ITV portrayal, and that adds another layer of weirdness to the whole shebang.
I’m working today. Ugh.
Peace and love.
I finally took my wee toe to A&E. Here I sit, waiting to be seen, resisting the urge to “check in” on Facebook with a vague attention seeking status update like “oh don’t worry about me guys, I’m just at ACCIDENT AND EMERGENCY with my SUSPECTED BROKEN PINKIE TOE” which would hopefully – nay inevitably – prompt the sympathetic “what’s up hon?” “R U ok chick?” and my personal favourite the “I’ve PMd you hon”
I need to get this bloody toe sorted once and for all. It’s exactly a month ago today since I suffered the mother of all toe stubbings on the corner of a wooden bed base (I’m cringing afresh at the memory).
Yes I need to get it sorted. If I painted a face on it it would look like Vanessa Feltz and nobody wants THAT hanging around on the end of their foot. I arrived at A&E at 530 and was the only attention seeker – I mean patient – here. But, typical of my luck, a toddler was brought in screaming in pain with what I imagine is a broken limb. Boy do I feel like a fraud. Since then there’s been a procession of walking and wheelchair wounded whose eyes I’m avoiding. But I know they’re judging me. I know they’re thinking “why’s SHE here, dangling her sandal off her fugly foot like she’s got hooses tae let?”
I’m now in a cubicle with my sandals completely off ready to present the offending toe for inspection and willing it to swell up to the size of a baby’s head to make my visit seem worthwhile. I fancy that they’ll say “oh my dear how have you managed to soldier on with such an injury for so long? You should have come sooner! You must have quite the pain threshold” (in reality I have no pain threshold. This is the woman who pleaded to be smothered with a pillow during the early stages of labour. I’d’ve happily died). There are people in neighbouring cubicles whimpering and moaning but I hope I get seen first because I’m as quiet as a mouse and I remembered that at the scene of an accident you should always tend the quiet ones first.
To be continued. If I make it out alive.
I thought I’d document this here. Last night I experienced without doubt the worst four minutes of my life.
Having not checked the forecast I stupidly hung out towels and duvet covers yesterday at 8am before the rains of biblical proportions started. I returned home scowling at 9pm in the driving bloody rain to a toppled whirligig and washing akimbo.
I did briefly consider leaving it all out there like a Tracy Emin installation until at least Thursday on the off chance that a) the world ended, rendering the shame of it all null and void, or b) it miraculously righted itself and dried; but guilt got the better of me and I eventually stomped out to fetch it all in.
It was a hellish tangle of pegs, sodden towels, duvet covers and whirligig line, and I whimpered like a wounded animal until it was all in the basket. I also said “fucking washing” a few times. Upon lifting the basket – which now weighed heavier than a neutron star or something else that’s all the matter in the universe condensed down to an unbelievably heavy thing – I staggered and twisted my ankle, which probably broke my toe again, if the pain was anything to go by.
I dumped it all in the utility room, where it sits yet, together with my wet frock, tights, pants and bra. And shoes. And dignity.
So there we have it ladies and gents. Without doubt the worst four minutes of my life to date. I know it sounds overdramatic. Tough.