Went aurora hunting. Freezing. No aurora. Stars lovely. Came back. Ate two crackers. Indulged in moderate self loathing. Donned nightie. Fired up Kindle. Got distracted. Fired up Amazon. Got distracted. Fired up Instagram. Got distracted. Fired up Facebook. Got distracted.
Mulled over some new hypochondria for 2016 eg borderline personality disorder. Harboured neggy thoughts about Jools Holland and that bloody Hootenanny. Decided am Hogmanay equiv of Scrooge, spreading ill will to all.
May attempt listening to Serial episode 4 podcast but will no doubt fall asleep after first two minutes. It’s very good. Can recommend.
For non FB friends here’s a picture from daughter’s lovely
wedding on Tuesday.
Nice that I finished on a high, isn’t it?
Keep the noise down please.
So Hannah and Ross get married TOMORROW!
I can hardly believe it’s here already. It’s a very exciting and happy family occasion and a chance to dress up like a flea hook as my mother used to say – which I’m guessing is a reference to fishing flies but may of course be wrong. She also used to say ‘Look at her, posing like an abdine’ which I always mean to Google now that we have the technology. Whassan abdine?
So in 19 hours or so I’ll leave the house (looking for all the world like Joan Collins in my emerald green pantsuit) with my celebrant’s folder containing the marriage schedule tucked under my batwing arm to make my way to Dumfries Museum to marry my daughter. How modern!
The weather forecast is proving tricksy though. Fickle at best. Storm Frank can shit off. I have however purchased ten brollies from Poundland for guests who haven’t come prepared (no expense spared for a daughter of mine -ha!) as we’ll all be conga-ing downhill from the Museum to the Robert Burns Centre for the speeches and lovely grub at Hullabaloo.
I might cry. I might not. I’ve had the anxiety dreams which precede an important event. I’m sure I’ll be fine as long as I don’t get so nervous I do something inappropriate like shout “COCK!”
We’re also Periscoping the ceremony for friends who can’t be there (if you’re a friend of the fam reading this and want added to the list of people who can access the broadcast – email me at firstname.lastname@example.org – but hurry!).
Tucker won’t be at the wedding – he’s canis non grata and will be away on a sleepover. Haven’t told him yet – he won’t take it well.
Anyway, wish us all luck!
My top ten predictions for 2016:
- Compulsory organ donations for anyone sharing “Free £50 Tesco vouchers” on Facebook. They don’t need their brains so we’ll harvest them first, although Christ knows what we’ll do with them.
- The beard thing will FINALLY be over. All the dudes with carefully cultivated hipster beards will be forced to finally and reluctantly shave them off and be dumped by their girlfriends when their true faces are revealed and there’ll be rich pickings on Tinder if you’ve the appetite for it. They were probably punching above their weight anyway, tbf. The beard may be replaced by the Hitler ‘tache; but for women only.
- My weight will continue to ricochet back and forth, up and down and into and out of all the dimensions.
- I still won’t clear the garage out.
- Capes will make another unwelcome return. Nobody can rock a cape.
- See also ponchos.
- Leggings will no longer be a thing. I’ll need to go naked from the waist down.
- Ski pants with the stirrups will be back in fashion for a month. I once wore the stirrups over my shoes.
- Man buns will be replaced by the manbraid, possibly bejewelled. Don’t shoot the messenger.
- Town criers will make a welcome return and will announce daily horoscopes from the steps of town halls across the land, dressed as Mr Wimpy.
Care to add any predictions of your own via the comments?
This post isn’t really about comets.
I’m struggling to type this. Not because it’s a difficult subject matter, but because I liberally applied Clarin’s Haute Exigence Nuit Super Restorative Night Cream all over my parched face last night and it’s in my eyes. Everything looks like Doris Day – all dreamy and soft focus.
I didn’t buy this snake oil – it was a sample given to me by the lovely Deniece from Debenham’s at their recent festive event. I’m trying to restore some youthful plumpness to my face for the forthcoming nuptials of the second-born. The recent crash dieting has left my skin dry and lizardy. It’s in shock at the lack of fat and sugar and is rebelling.
In other news after 54 years on the planet and endless cups of builder’s tea (milk and two sugars for me thanks and leave the tea bag in) I’ve finally cracked it and stopped taking sugar in my tea. Victory is mine! I still don’t own a set of matching mugs though; so I’m not all THAT grown up. I’ve a cupboard full of mismatched mugs either inherited, free promotional mugs or gifted as in the ‘Fuck you you fucking fuck’ from Celena two years ago which makes me lol every time I open the cupboard. I really should be a proper adult and buy some nice matching mugs on a mug tree or something – but that’s not a hint at a Christmas present before anybody reaches for the Argos catalogue.
I can only aspire to the dizzy heights of mug ownership a la Chris Brown’s cupboard of Emma Bridgewater that must be worth the GDP of a small country. I’ve never recovered from the sight of all that matching crockery.
Other things I don’t own are matching towels. Oh yes now and again I’ll alight from the shower and notice that the hand towel in the bathroom matches the towel I’m drying myself with but that’s almost always a fluke and seems to happen in line with the return of Halley’s Comet ie every 76 years. (That reminds me – Rachael Halley Mason if you’re reading this – remember to have a massive celebration in 2061. I’m sorry I won’t be there but I’ll be enjoying the show from a galaxy far, far away where my atoms will probably have settled, although I’ve just done a sum in my head and I could still be around if I behave myself and start eating quinoa and goji berries)
Enough nonsense; I’m off to get my roots done for the wedding. I hope you enjoyed that semi colon. I’m trying to use them more. I used one yesterday in a passive aggressive text to Les after I was disproportionately irked by the lack of communication from her the night before (hey I might have stopped the sugar in my tea and coffee but I’m still a drama queen) and after a couple of hours radio silence while I licked my metaphorical and huffy wounds I got this and it made me lol:
I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to bits that I’m sharing my domestic minutiae with you.
Now if you’ll excuse me I’m off to weigh myself before showering. I’m convinced that you’re lighter in the mornings because a) gravity hasn’t kicked in properly after you’ve been horizontal all night and b) you can weigh yourself naked unless like me you remove your pyjamas but hold them in your hand while you’re on the scales and tut at the pound you’ve gained since yesterday and YES THIS HAPPENED.
Ps it turns out the Clarins wasn’t to blame for my cloudy eyes. My glasses just needed cleaned. Ha!
- That bloody elf thing. Where’s the bloody elf or whatever the shit it’s called. NOBODY BLADDY CARES. Who started this nonsense?
- Any referral to sparkling wine as “bubbly”.
- This effing diet.
- Security questions on websites. Fuck!
- Chummy “live chat” with customer advisers where you go round in bloody circles getting nowhere and get really crabbit and start using all the exclamation marks and they think you’re off your head.
- Buying Christmas presents
- Wrapping Christmas presents. I slithered off the couch earlier to wrap a thing and actually whimpered and just lay there half on and half off the couch staring into the middle distance thinking about bacon sandwiches and generally not wrapping presents.
- Kirstie Allsop’s faux wide-eyed wonder at all the Christmas tat these saps with too much time on their hands make with tree bark and felt or whatever. I’ve never had a “centrepiece” for the Christmas dinner table and haven’t died a winter yet for the want of one.
- Not being able to find my Grinch DVD in the garage of spidery horror. I refuse to buy it AGAIN.
- The unfathomable complexity of the Clydesdale Bank’s banking app. Could just be me. I’ve had no carbs for a month which is depriving my brain of something surely.
- That British astronaut being all smug and astronauty. And his wife, being all supportive and wifely.
I know. I’m a horrible person. Shut up. I don’t care.
Things I’m sick to the back teeth of:
- Not winning £300,000 on scratchcards.
- That bloody light coming on in the bloody car – YOU DON’T NEED A BLOODY LAMBDA SENSOR. STFU AND LET’S HEAR NO MORE ABOUT IT OR I’LL TRADE YOU IN.
- Storm Desmond. In a tradition stretching back to Hurricane Bawbag, I propose that the naming of weather phenomenon be left in the safe hands of the people of Scotland eg Storm Fannychops or Hurricane Buckfast etc. Or non-Scottish nomenclature that sounds rude but isn’t eg Hurricane Tummystick or Storm Ringsausage.
- Eating dust when I actually want all the carbs and fat. I rebeled and had four fish fingers for my tea. I struggled to articulate this to Les on the phone and ended up in a tangle of teeth, tongue and lips. Alliteration of foodstuffs can be tricksy.
- Not being able to kill two birds with one stone by taking Tucker a walk and popping in to the Big Tesco en route. I could claim he’s a guide dog in training if he’d just co-operate and stop being overfriendly and skittish.
- The telly and the absolute shite thereon.
- The state of my bedroom.
- The festive decorations not teleporting themselves from the undoubtedly spider-ridden garage to my living room.
- The thing that I’ve hoovered up – possibly a hair tie or a kirby grip – that makes the hoover go thrrrrrrrr despite my poking its innards with a knitting needle.
- Talking of knitting needles, I’m sick of the lack of motivation to finish the seventies-tastic tank top I started knitting for Les way back in the early heady days of our relationship when we were both holding our stomachs in and shaving our legs regularly and I was trying to impress her with my questionable raft of domestic and craft skills. She sees me for what I am now – a hairy legged plump non-completer.
Apologies for being Mrs Neggypants but I’m feeling a bit biscuit-ersed tonight. Bloody weather.