There’s aaaa plaaaace for uuuuus…

Forgive me for speaking kinda ill of the dead, but I have lived my fifty odd years thinking Leonard Cohen was Leonard Bernstein. 

I can’t explain this. I have literally no awareness of L Cohen’s oeuvre,  except for that Hallelujah dirge that every X Factor contestant in the world has covered, most of which were on the poorer side of acceptable, to paraphrase a lecturer’s feedback about the quality of a video I submitted for an assessment. The swine! I still passed on the acceptable side of acceptable,  so I won’t waste my time ruminating on that comment (I totally will, and indeed have. And will continue to do). 

I know it sounds like I’ve been living under a rock re Cohen.  As I said, I can’t explain this. I was brought up on a diet of chips and Frank Sinatra. Does that go some way to explain it? 

I’ve spent my adult life with a Bernstein brainworm every time I hear the name Leonard Cohen:

”  There’s aaaa place for uuuuus / somewheeeeere a place for uuuuuus “

Furthermore, and to add insult to injury, Leonard Cohen was on my list of people-I-thought-were-already-dead. This is a worrying phenomenon. I even see people in the street and think ‘Shiiiiit. That’s freaky. I thought they died’ 

What IS that all about? Is this a common phenomenon – confusing people with other people, dead and alive? The older I get, the stranger my mind becomes. 

In a completely off-topic closing topic, can we talk about train etiquette? Here are my observations and comments on this important matter:

Do not purse your lips at me when I join the train at Lockerbie and you’ve been on the train, bleary eyed  since Manchester enjoying the run of your forward facing seat, table, power point, and window. Tough shit, sista. I’ve got a booked seat at this table *waves ticket* and I’m not afraid to exercise my right to use it. And you can remove your be-popsocked feet from the chair opposite while you’re at it. I’ve no desire to experience them. 
Have a lovely Saturday and don’t worry about the Trump thing. I keep trying to imagine him in the Oval Office and I get a vision of Foghorn Leghorn, who actually would, IMHO, be a more worthy president. 

Half ottoman oooooh. 

I’ve missed the blog. I’ve been kinda busy adulting on another website for the furtherance of my education. 

As has been clearly demonstrated throughout my life (I offer no examples – use your imagination or indeed memory) I have zero morals so am more than happy to pimp out my efforts here in an attempt to boost my stats in Google Analytics, which I can be found obsessing over at every opportunity, in much the same way a man of a certain age can be found obsessing over the Screwfix Direct catalogue on a weekend. Oh and don’t just open the bloody website and shut it again FFS because my bounce rate is giving me the screaming abdabs as it is, getting all up in my grill with its 80% shite. 

Nothing much has changed since my last blog. Got a new mattress. And a whole new bed to go underneath it in fact, which we were encouraged to customise (don’t give me choices! Just give me a bloody bed!) so plumped for the half ottoman, which sounds like an accidental Partridge in many ways. “I plumped for the half ottoman. A-haa!” 

Every time I say ottoman I have to recreate the Chewin’ the Fat (or is it Still Game?) ‘ooooh ottoman’ thing, which, if you’re not Scottish will require elucidation but I’m buggered if I can find it on YouTube. Feel free to assist in this endeavour. 

Being the owner of a half ottoman (oooh half ottoman) is not without its problems. Having forgotten we actually had it for the first two weeks I then spent the next two demonstrating it to all and sundry, sometimes with Mrs B still in the actual bed, much to her surprise, as it folded her back on herself into an enforced yoga pose I like to call ‘the reverse arse over tit’

Eventually I moved all the duvet covers and sheets into said half ottoman (oooh etc), having had the lifehack brainwave to pop each duvet cover, matching pillowcases and a sheet into a pillowcase from the same set, much to the youngest’s amusement on being treated to a demo of the half ottoman (oooh etc oh shut up Lindsey it’s just annoying now):

“That’s a nifty trick with your duvet covers! How long have you been doing that?”

“That? Oh forever. It keeps them all together so it saves rummaging for the matching pillowcases. S’good innit?”

*snorts derisively*”you’re a bloody liar. You just saw that on Pinterest and literally just started doing it. That’ll last five minutes”

*rumbled* “yep you’re right. It’s bugging me already. I’ll never do it again”

So the half ottoman (sigh) is now populated with a big mess of duvet covers (assorted sizes) pillowcases (some of dubious age and provenance), mattress covers, electrical blankets (I’m 55 ffs. I feel the cold*) and sheets (scratchy ikea polyester to 50000000 thread Egyptian cotton). 

Yet I can still be found staring crabbitly into the erstwhile linen cupboard looking for a change of bedding bellowing “WHERE ARE ALL THE FUCKING SHEETS?!”

Old habits die hard. 

*saying “I’m 55!” has become my go-to excuse for a range of things these days including “I’m 55!” when somebody rhetorically asks if I really know everybody  in Dumfries as I say hello to everyone I meet. I’m 55; I’ve lived here all my life. I’ve either snogged them, married them, been drunk with them, been to school with them, worked with them or…well…I refer you back to the second paragraph of this blog re morals. 

Peace out.