Rollerblading on beaches. 

Hello! I’ve just popped in to say I’ve got loads of blog posts in draft form again, waiting to be polished up and floated off into the sea of Tigerbaps as I salute them bravely on their way. 

Sorry about the weird analogy above – I just kinda ran with it. In my defence I’m “off my tits” on antibiotics, as the young folk say, if one CAN be off one’s tits on antibiotics. If one can’t be off one’s tits on antibiotics I’ve just invented it, because my tits feel very much off of. 

Oh alright since you ask I’m on antibiotics for a paronychia. http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/1106062-overview#a4

You’ll note that I shun the Wikipedia for medical references, preferring instead to consult medical journals where they talk about the ‘quality of life’ expected following minor ailments like a sore thumb. I can expect to lead a full life according to e-medicine above. That’ll make a change then. I hope I don’t start rollerblading along beaches with Tucker, or windsurfing and smiling like they do in the adverts. I don’t have the build for windsurfing. I’d drop like a stone. 

The aforementioned paronychia is fucking agony. It resulted from a week of finger skin biting, which I know is disgusting but is my go-to disgusting habit if I’m feeling stressy, which I currently am for no good reason. The pain from this stupid condition is horrendous and throbbing – and the only relief to be had is by holding the stupid thumb aloft – even in bed – as if hailing an imaginary taxi or channeling The Fonz. 

Going to the doctor with this stupid ailment is embarrassing but necessary, so in I blustered, thumb aloft, shouting “HELLO HOW ARE YOU I’VE GOT A PARONYCHIA AGAIN WHAT AM I LIKE”. Weirdly we stood for the whole consultation, which lasted 90 seconds exactly from blustering in to prescription. I’m wondering if this is a new thing, standing up at the doctor. I’m due my cervical smear soon, so that’ll be fun, blustering in going “HELLO HOW ARE YOU I’M HERE FOR MY SMEAR” as I stand naked from the waist down, legs akimbo. 

So now I have horrible antibiotics which give me ALL the side effects including, apparently, narcolepsy, judging by the rapid onset of sleep last night. I sure feel weird today, and my thumb’s still throbbing.

As soon as my thumb recovers and I’m leading a full life with my rollerblading on beaches with Tucker and doing smiley windsurfing I’ll polish up the myriad draft blog posts and salute them off to the sea of Tigerbaps. 

PS – I’ve started a whole ‘nother blog. Stand by for inaugural post when my thumb stops throbbing. It’s an “instructional” blog…

Half-arsed TV critic. 

I’ve started watching stuff on Amazon Prime at last. Found Transparent Seasons 1 and 2 to be particularly enjoyable and practically perfect in every way and can thoroughly recommend same. 

I proclaimed loudly to Mrs ‘Baps as we lounged in bed binge-watching Season 2 that it was possibly the best tv I’d ever laid eyes on. A bold claim from the woman who half watches telly while plittering with her phone/iPad/dog and hardly gets to the end of a programme without exclaiming “well THIS is pish”

My attention (-span of a gnat) was turned to Mr Robot on Amazon Prime at 2am yesterday when I randomly woke up to what I thought was an earth tremor (damn those bloody tectonic plates!) but was actually just Tucker having a scratch and making the bed shoogle. Yes my dog sleeps on my bed; judge not, lest ye be judged. 

He’s really bugging my chi this week. I nipped home at lunchtime today and found a square of dark chocolate with canine teeth marks lying in the middle of the living room floor amidst a pile of chittered silver paper. He’d obviously been parkouring round the living room flinging himself from chair to table to shabby chic’d sideboard to get at my half a bar of special dark chocolate (fae Lidl, since you ask). 

A quick Google and phone call and subsequent visit to the vet later – I didn’t take him – I’ve got crippling vet phobia and would probably pee on the floor of the vet’s surgery if I took him.  I’m too traumatised following his drama queen antics and bad reputation at the previous vet whom I suspect hated both Tucker and me and wished he could just pop us both off to sleep and deny all knowledge of having seen us. No, the vet visits are undertaken by a third party – usually Mrs ‘Baps if she’s here. But she wasn’t, damn her, so I’d to beg my son-in-law to do the deed. 

Anyway he’s fine now but I did want to boot his furry little arse into next week for causing me momentary lunchtime grief. The dog; not the son-in-law. 

Back to the highly acclaimed Mr Robot on Amazon Prime: I had high hopes for it but I’m afraid I turned it off after twenty minutes. Young, socially awkward, possibly autistic computer wunderkind works in cyber security by day and hacker by night. Yawwwn. Heard it all before. Oh yes he’s clearly good at hammering commands in to a computer but can he crochet a granny square? Make a cheese soufflé? Poach an egg satisfactorily? I very much doubt it. Just because he’s good at computers and shit doesn’t make him a genius. Just different skills for different ummm… folks innit? I rest my case. 

And why do people on tv always work ridiculous hours? I’m not impressed by your presenteeism. Get home. Then you’ll have time to learn how to crochet a granny square. You’ll thank me.

Interestingly (arguably)  I’ve a bag full of crocheted granny squares somewhere. The gaps between my crocheting frenzies are so large I have to watch YouTube tutorials to refresh my memory every time I take the notion again. I can’t hack a massive corporation’s computer systems though, despite my Bachelor of Science status, so quid pro quo, Clarice, as my granny was wont to say. 

Enigmatic with popcorn. 

Celeb Big Brother is some crazyarse piece of work this time round, if you’re watching it. I’m not really watching it but catch the odd wee five minutes while channel surfing. There’s a particularly odious big blonde gobshite who seems to very much enjoy “being honest wiv ya babe” and wearing sunglasses and coats indoors. I’d avoid her like the plague. And the programme. Don’t watch it; it’s vile. 

Today I’m disproportionately pissed off that cinema listings only go up to Thursday. Surely they know what’s coming? Or do they get to Thursday and go “ooft is that the time? I’ve taken my eye off the ball. Quick! What’ll we put on tomorrow? Oh stick that old Chitty Chitty Bang Bang DVD in – it’s only Dumfries Odeon. They’re practically Neanderthal down there. They wouldn’t know a good film if it popped up in their soup. They’re too busy making latch hook rugs and crocheting antimacassars. They’ve no time for the moving pictures”. 

But srsly though – why DO the listings only go up to Thursday? It’s a bloody nonsense – I can’t forward plan. And I’m all about the forward planning. I’m forward planning a regular Sunday night trip to the pictures by myself, in an attempt to vanquish the beast that is the Sunday night sads, following Mrs ‘Baps departure back to the big city. Don’t invite yourself along please; I enjoy my own company at the pictures. It gives me the opportunity to appear mysterious and enigmatic with a bucket of popcorn. 

I went to see Star Wars on Sunday night past, which I enjoyed well enough, but decided that most films including all the Star Wars are just basically Scooby Doo plots, all pesky kids and ‘good will prevail’. 

Spoiler alert: I was surprised to see Luke Skywalker found on what appeared to be Arran of all bloody places. I hope he doesn’t use the public toilet in Blackwaterfoot, scene of the famous ‘Karen in Arran’ vomiting incident of yore. 

I’ve just remembered that in MY day you had to buy the local paper and turn to the pages just after the middle – the so called “entertainment” page – to look for the tiny advert to find out what was showing in the coming week. And there was always a wee film before the main feature – what did they call that again? My memory is bloody awful. I blame the fumes from my mother’s hair lacquer back in the swinging sixties, copiously applied with a scooshy bottle – no aerosols destroying the ozone layer back then (apologies for this weird meander down memory lane but someone said hair lacquer at work yesterday and I lolled at the ensuing memory although I’ve just googled “hair lacquer 1960s” and can’t find a picture of the bottle I’m thinking of. Have I had a false memory again?)

In other news I spent about twelve hours last night flibbertigibbetting about on the internet trying to spend a twenty quid House of Fraser refund that’s been burning a hole in my pocket. I had a range of items in my virtual shopping basket throughout the course of the shopping extravaganza including a new blusher, a lamp, a pinafore frock which would’ve flattened my ample bosom alarmingly so was quickly jettisoned, an extravagant towel, a purse and overpriced tights which I decided would be too short in the crotch and make me stabby. I finally plumped for a Biba scented candle. God only knows why. Because I’m an idiot, possibly? 

Have a great Tuesday. I’ve forward planned a bacon bagel for breakfast and am all excited about the prospect. 

Tuesday roundup. Not spellchecked. Sorry. 

 Tuesday: my lunchtime Post Office queue* induced fury was offset by the euphoria of being able to touch-type lackadaisical in an email without any errors, and the miracle of my metabolism having somehow managed to convince my body to shed a pound over the festive season, despite rollercoaster dieting which lurched between living on dust and water and being so hungry I wanted to pluck fat seagulls out of the sky and eat them raw and eating my way through six packs of Magnums (assorted flavours). 
It’s possibly the first time I’ve ever had occasion to type the word lackadaisical; it was in relation to my apparent gung-ho approach to personal online security which resulted in some fraudulent actitivy on my bank account. Some bloody bastard had ordered something costing £174.45 from Asda, of all bloody places. If you’re going to plunder my bank account, at least do it with a flourish. A lorryload of Jo Malone candles for example, could fairly rack up a hefty bill and make a dent in my measly coffers. Or 1500 Marlboro Lights and 40 Scratchcards. Or a pound of saffron. Or an ounce of the finest caviar and some edible gold leaf. Or 500 Toblerones and 60 Terry’s Chocolate Oranges with which to make that new hybrid Toblerorange thing which is doing the rounds on Facebook. On the Tigerbaps Hierarchy of Needs the Toblerorange takes up about 80% of the triangle. Bingewatching Transparent on Amazon Prime is the other 20%. 

 

Luckily, thanks to my recent financial coaching, undertaken in an attempt to overcome my financial ermmm how shall I put this…’imprudence’ I spotted the fraudulent activity and phoned the bank pronto.
Apparently this time of year is rife with bank fraud. Ne’er-do-well fraudsters buying large kitchen appliances right, left and centre apparently, on some hapless citizen’s dollar eg me. It pissed me right off and I hadn’t even had my first Nespresso of the day. 
In other news worthy of a mention – I took Tucker out for an evening stroll round the parish about 645pm and some complete shithouse DELIBERATELY drove at me through a puddle as we walked along Stakeford Street, which soaked me from the waist down – and I mean soaked – I squelched back to the house with Tucker looking like a massive rat on a lead, after I’d shouted FUCKING ARSEHOLE at the silver car (registration starting SN) at the top of my lungs like a fishwife. I was going visiting too. I ended up going out for the evening in my slippers. 

I hope karma is a thing. 

It’s not been the best day, but one remains upbeat. 

Today’s song from my past heard and enjoyed – Blow Monkeys, Digging Your Scene.

*Dumfries is ridiculously lacking  in Post Offices. Wasn’t like that in my day. I was a Postal Officer from 1978 to 1989 although I was hungover from 1978 to 1986 so can’t really count that because I probably just turned up in my wash ‘n’ wear perm and hid under the counter nursing a headache, pretending to have dropped my pen and taking hours to find it. I once turned up wearing two different shoes. True story.