I’ve a free weekend for the first time since about 1978. I’m quite excited about the prospect of a whole Sunday of nowhere to be and nobody to have to talk to (that’s not an invitation for my phone to ring off the bloody hook thank you). 

I’ve no work to be at, no social engagements to grudgingly attend and no Mrs Fabulous around due to her gallivanting off somewhere and her own work commitments getting in the way of our usual weekend lardarsing in bed playing tents with Tucker (not a euphemism). I miss her this morning. I’ve taken to tidying the icons on my phone for entertainment and later am planning to clean the oven with the scary Oven Pride oven cleaning kit, purchased when I was in a good mood in August and which has lurked in the cupboard under the sink ever since, since neither the good mood nor the motivation have made a reappearance. 

The weather will undoubtedly thwart my dog walking plans as he hates rain as much as I do and knows he’ll be forced to wear the dog coat of humiliation, the sight of which sends him scurrying under the bed.  I was kinda looking forward to a good March round the parish looking for houses with Christmas trees up so I could scowl and feel superior about my own treeless window. 

Actually fuck it; I might put the tree up next week because as soon as Christmas Day arrives I’ll be like “oh for fucksake can we take that fucking tree down? It’s doing my tits in” because by then I’ll be extremely crabbit with lack of sugar, carbs and fat and they’ll be waiting for my head to spin round on its axis like Regan in the Exorcist which is a scene that everyone quotes despite not having actually seen the film, including my bad self. 

Yes, as if things weren’t bad enough – relative obviously to all the bad things going on in the world -I’m dieting for daughter number 2’s Big Day IN FOUR WEEKS and I’m  so hungry that when I look at Tucker I swear I see him in a hotdog bun with a line of mustard atop his back. I’m turning into Homer Simpson. I’m also turning into a diet bore and the kind of person who feels guilty if they eat 10g more cabbage than their daily allowance. I also fleetingly wondered if it would be a good idea to carry a chicken stock cube around with me so I could occasionally lick it if the going got tough. Jesus wept. 

Granted, I’ve cut it fine with regards to fat reduction but I’ve been so busy eating all the crisps and cakes I didn’t have time. 

I’m not one for motivational talk; I find nothing more demotivating than a motivational quote, preferring instead to browse the All Saints website admiring all the “Here’s what you could’ve worn if you hadn’t been such a lazy arse and had stopped eating pastry” droopy, asymmetric, muted-coloured gorgeousness therein. 

Being a feeder, it’s breaking my heart to have to suggest “there’s half a jar of beetroot in the fridge?” when loved ones arrive expecting a lovely home cooked tea but I can’t be trusted to have real food in the house. I fully appreciate the first-worldness of this problem. 

What are you doing with your Sunday? Give me some Sunday inspo. 

I’m so tired…

So awfully tired…

This latest awful incident has, as usual, brought out the best and worst of social media. I’ve considered packing it all in (social media; not life – I know I’m a drama queen but even I have limits) several times over the past few days but I’d miss the fun times.
I’m bugged by the “Ooooh look how clever I am bringing the fresh perspective and judging everyone else for their futile gestures eg changing their profile pic” as much as I’m bugged by the racist, islamophobic, ignorant bile I’ve read on social media. 

 Yes it’s 530 in the morning and I’ve been awake since 4. 

Yes I’m crabbit. 

Yes I’ve to be up at 6. 

Yes I care about everybody in the world who’s suffering. 

Just because I don’t comment on social media doesn’t mean I don’t care. I have my reasons for sitting on my hands and not saying what I don’t say and if you don’t like it you can go and stand over there. Yes. There. ➡️. And when you get there you can tell me what the view’s like from the moral high ground. Then you can make me coffee and we’ll hug it out. 

Peace and, as ever, love. 

PS – and if anybody feels like changing their profile pic to eg a cat smoking a cigar, wearing a top hat and riding a unicycle to raise awareness of marginalised cats that’s fine by me. I care not. Knock yersel oot, as my late mother wouldn’t have said. 


Due to over-commitment of my non-work time, this seems to be the only time of day at the moment I’m able to answer messages, reply to emails, make plans, or think about hard things. So hello, everybody, and if you’re waiting for a reply from me about anything then it might be coming right up.(it probably isn’t though). 

I’ve just noticed I’ve a doctor’s appointment today at 9am, made weeks ago after my request for a repeat prescription for one of my many quite possibly imaginary ailments. I hoped it’d slip through the net unchallenged but alas not; I was summoned before The Doctor for a “review”. I suspect they think my acid reflux medication (a bloody lifesaver after a pastry binge) is a gateway drug to something recreational. 
I didn’t get my usual text message reminder, and it turns out I’ll need to cancel the appointment, which grieves me because they’re like gold dust. 

The eagle-eyed amongst you will notice my blatant use of the Oxford comma in this post. Possibly twice. 
Good things about today so far:

  1. First coffee of the day (an aeropress if you please) and it’s an absolute blinder. Go me! 
  2. Tucker voluntarily got out of bed to go out for an early widdle. He usually runs under the bed when I get up so I can’t drag him out of bed and carry him to the back door like a baby.  He’s a lazy shit. And cunning with it. 

That’s it really. I’m struggling to think of a third. 

Peace, love and gateway drugs to you all xx

Friday’s lessons. 

Well how stupid do I feel? I bragged; not humbly, about the two things I learned today whilst driving to Stranraer (after I’d calmed down following a meltdown-inducing ‘where-the-fuck-is-the-fucking-car’ incident). 

Thing number one – I learned that the location of the petrol cap on a car is indicated by a handy wee symbol on your fuel gauge: namely that if the wee handle is on the right of the picture of the pump then your petrol cap is on the driver’s side and so on and so forth. 

I posted this nugget of knowledge on Facebook and basked in the afterglow of a fact well shared and waited for the likes and gratitude to flood in, which they duly did. 

Imagine then my surprise at the Big Tesco when I pulled up triumphantly at the pump, skipped jauntily and smugly out of the car to fumble with the pay-at-pump machine (my mind always goes blank at this point – I get petrol pump anxiety and can’t remember the difference between ‘pay at pump’ and ‘pay at kiosk’ in much the same way as I can never differentiate between people called Maureen and Marion. The anxiety of that makes my top lip sweat but that might be yet another symptom of the menopause – the moisture diverts from the bits of your body you’d prefer to have some moisture kicking around and diverts to your top lip and under your boobs, mysteriously. 

I’ve digressed massively but I’m typing this sideways on my phone, in bed, so cut me some slack, kiddos. 

So there I was, Tesco Clubcard in hand, looking at my car, willing a fuel cap to appear at the driver’s side. No such thing was in evidence. Nonplussed, I just gawped at the car, crestfallen, and making that face I reserve for when Jedward appear on my telly, wondering why the hell my car would lie to me. 

Luckily the hose stretched to the other side of the bastard car, after I unfankled the three hoses which some previous arsehole had fankled, inducing another sweaty top lip at the possibility that I was filling my car up with either a) diesel, or worse b) the dear petrol which I’m convinced would give my car heartburn or something. It’s not used to such rich expensive foodstuffs. 

Lesson learned: don’t believe everybloodything you hear on Radio 4. 

The second thing I learned is that there’s an app to block those irritating ads on your phone when you’re googling. I hate that. If I could turn back time and say no to the acceptance of all those cookies which I accepted with such gay abandon I most certainly would. 

Peace and love.