That time we went dahn sarf.

As is my usual M.O, this has been written over several days and weeks and is therefore confusing. It’ll feel a bit like time travel. It’ll feel like you’ve flitted  back and forth through your wardrobe to Narnia half a dozen times. I apologise in advance. Just go with it. I’m not saying it’s worth it but it’ll at least give you a reason to stare at your phone for a few minutes thus avoiding human contact.

Tuesday (Now two weeks ago, FFS!)

We’re just back from a long weekend dahn sarf looking at art and eating. I love the idea of an art gallery or museum but find them overstimulating and can only tolerate about an hour of going ooh that’s lovely or worra load of old shit before curling my lip, yawning, needing the toilet and heading giftshopward or caféward.

The giftshop at Tate Modern however yielded a lovely read in the shape of a biography of Grayson Perry. I’m a huge Grayson fan and feel like we’d get on like a house on fire and become great friends. I also think that about Johnathan Ross. I had a Twitter exchange with him in the days when only six folk had Twitter accounts and we all spoke to each other and Johnathan and I regularly (once) batted witty repartee back and forward.

Grayson’s biography is what I’d describe as a charming book thus far (I’m only at the prologue!) and captures the zeitgeist of  growing up in the sixties very well in my snooty opinion.  It’s made me yearn for the Encyclopaedic Books of Knowledge that alphabetically lined a white gloss painted shelf in our living room when I was wee. I can still smell that shelf. I devoured the books and used to read them for fun. I wasn’t like the other girls. I was bookish. They suited my enquiring mind perfectly. I even learned the history and rules of lawn tennis from those books. That stood me in good stead, didn’t it? I’m a lardy couch potato. I’ve never used a tennis racquet in anger, or participated in any competitive sport, but never say never. Although I clearly just did. Three times.

While we’re loosely on the subject of my expert theoretical knowledge of tennis, there follows a summary of the highlights of our long weekend, set against the background of tennis match scoring.

But first some context. Prior to the London trip, in my usual penny wise/pounds foolish style, I cashed in my Tesco Clubcard points and exchanged same for 30 quids worth of Zizzi restaurant vouchers. I don’t know why I did that; I don’t like chain faux Italian restos. It’s just carbs innit? There’s nae meat. Regardless, armed with my thirty quid worth of Zizzi vouchers, off we went to London. First class if you please! I had gin at 1pm! Then felt hungover by Birmingham.

Arrived at the hotel at teatime, mysteriously starving despite having eaten everything off the trolley on the First Class Virgin carriage, and with the Zizzi vouchers burning a hole in my pocket, we set off smugly to Zizzi. I know, I know – all the lovely places in London to eat and we went to Zizzi. But HELLO. VOUCHER. Stereotypical Scots innit? But I’m happy to throw a hundred quid upwards at perfume and snake oil face creams. It’s ridiculous. 

So in to Zizzi we go, and OF COURSE sat behind the woman with the loudest laugh on the planet. Nevertheless, on we ploughed through the menu. We each ordered some overpriced carbs – me tortellini, she a weird gigantopizza – together with some extravagant cocktails and a lemony dessert that tasted of disappointment and was so tart it made my face go inside out, much to Mrs T’s annoyance every time I ate a spoonful. “Don’t eat it then!” But by Christ I was determined to eat it, mainly because my tortellini amounted to five pieces and I’d scoffed it in about three minutes, after which I got the terrible pizza horn but couldn’t have a bit of Mrs T’s because it had anchovies on it.

The bill duly came, not that I was worried because I was armed with thirty quid of Zizzi vouchers! Ha! Yes! I’m triumphant! I’ve thirty quid of vouchers for Zizzi! Take that London!

My jubilation was interrupted by the waiter:

“these vouchers are for Pizza Express”

Me: (thinking everyone’s a bloody comedian) “Hahahahaha!”

Waiter: “No. They are. Look”

And sure as a cat’s a hairy beast the vouchers were in actual fact for Pizza shitting Express.

Fifty quid for a mountain of fucking carbs and two desserts of disappointment.

Me, whining:”But…but…I don’t like Pizza Express”

Score: Fifteen Love London.

Wednesday. With carb bloat. 

Off to the V&A today to see the Undressed exhibition armed with our two for one voucher. (Again, penny wise pounds foolish). I hadn’t checked the weather so sailed out on to the streets of London in Converse and a short sleeve summer frock only to find that it was raining. Heavily.

Mrs T: Did you bring a brolly?

Me: Eh no. I didn’t even bring a jacket. 

Mrs T: You want me to go back and get your jacket? 

Me: Yes please

*interval while jacket is retrieved*

Me: Thanks. 

*dons jacket. Hood won’t stay up. Gets crabbit*

Me: Actually I kinda wish I had my brolly. 

Mrs T: you want me to go back for it?

Me: Yes. Yes I do. That would be lovely of you. I’ll sit in that nice dry cafe over there and have a cappuccino. 

*interval while brolly is fetched*

*Mrs T returns with brolly*

Me: Thank you but the rain’s stopped. 

Score:Thirty Love London

*Schlep to tube station*

Me:You got the Oyster cards?

Mrs T, clutching at pockets:  Oops. They’re in my other shirt. 

Me: Oh for fucksake. 

*Cough up tube fares*

Arrive at V&A

Me: Good morning my good man. We’re here to see this fancy exhibition about pants. I think you’ll find we only need pay entrance fee for one since we have this two for one voucher we cleverly downloaded off my internet. 

It’s here somewhere…

*Rummage in handbag…*

*Further rummage…beads of sweat forming on top lip*

*Look accusingly at Mrs T*

Me: Did you…

Mrs T: Eh no. You had it. Did you pick it up off the table in the room? 

Me: No. No I didn’t. 

Forty Love London, you bastard. 

Wednesday

In a state of post holiday bewilderment I spent today thinking a) it was Monday and b) wondering why I didn’t see any evidence of that purveyor of mediocre baked goods Gregg’s in London.

We’ve decided we need to lose weight. The taller and therefore relatively and arguably less rotund Mrs T has purchased a bike. The courier won’t deliver it here for some reason which is insane. We’re not in Macchu Picchu. The bike, when it arrives, has only three gears. “I’m 43; I’ve no need for a bike with twenty odd gears. I wouldn’t know what to do with them all”. This whilst poking down a Cornetto. 

Saturday

Woke up at 4am annoyed about sweet potato and the pointlessness of it. 

Whilst reading an article on incest today ( I didn’t seek it out; I came across it during one of those down the rabbit hole internet reading sessions that you start by googling something dull like ingrown toenail treatment and end up succumbing to clickbait with titles like I gave birth to a giraffe) I encountered the loveliest new word: consanguineous. I sighed with pleasure when I read it, and tried it out for size a couple of times to a nonplussed Tucker (who incidentally has taken up a delightful hobby – eating Audrey’s (the cat) meat and her shit. Literally eating cat shit. I can barely look at him.

 I can’t wait for an occasion where i can use the word consanguineous. I might have to resort to bringing up the subject of incest at some point. You might want to avoid me for a few weeks until I’ve moved on to another word.

I got bored with the tennis scoring thing you’ll notice. 

Still. Consanguineous. Phwoar.

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. 

Things that make me make this face :-{

What is it with this ridiculousness?

  What thought process, on rifling through the detritus of the floordrobe, results in the decision to wear such an abomination?

“The weather’s a bit inbetweeny today – I think I’ll don the Gladiator sandaloots”

(for surely this must be the word for footwear that combines the leg coverage of a boot with the skeleton structure of a sandal).

My lip also curled at the boak inducing monthly showerplug unblocking procedure. Nothing gives me the dry boak more than finding myself ankle deep in standing water thirty seconds in to a shower.  I HATE THAT. Is that all MY HAIR snarled up in the plug hole or is it the hair of a thousand strangers rising up from the depths of the bowels of hell via a fatberg? Yes I’m guilty of slovenly housewifery but judge not, lest ye be judged. My fingers may have explored a few questionable orifices in their time (yes I’m getting that in there before anybody else does – and that’s not a euphemism) but there ain’t no way they’re exploring hair down a plug hole, daily.

On a positive note, here are my three things for which I’m grateful today:

  1. My replacement Fitbit arrived. Mason is back in the game! My stats are down to zero, which worried my pal Kate so much she asked if I’d finally forsaken my perfectly serviceable but less than aesthetically pleasing legs and taken to a mobility scooter.
  2. These flowers from Mrs T’baps. Awwww. That’s the second week running she’s brought me flowers. What’s she done?  She must’ve done something…
  3. Dancing round the kitchen with Mrs T’baps to Friday night Solar Radio, including this top tune from yesteryear – from the days when I could rock a leotard, footless tights and a circle skirt split to the waist up Coils bar in Dumfries of a weekend (with the exception of that ill-advised one shoulder neon pink leotard which precluded the wearing of a bra and gave me the look of an extra in Debbie Does Dallas or equiv 70s soft porn movie.

Ps I haven’t checked that YouTube link because Mrs T is snoring gently beside me. If it turns out to be Pinky and Perky oinking their way through a medley of Beatles hits I do apologise – it should be Narada Michael Walden I Shoulda Loved Ya. 

Peace and love to you all.

PPS – oh for fucksake. It’s been brought to my attention that there’s no like button on the blog since my last plitter. If you want to express your like for this post hit me up on the Twitter or the Facebook. I crave your approval.

PPPS – now fixed. Thank you Sharon Halliday. Sharon’s brilliant company Infinite Eye will cater for all your web design needs x