It’s not me; it’s YouView. 

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. 

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