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. 

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. 

It’s not me; it’s YouView. 

No bloggings have been forthcoming from my brain this week. My creative juices have clearly dried up. Bloody menopause. (That’s an oxymoron innit?)

I had a quietish weekend last weekend (blighted with the lurgy and the broken toe)  which, although not entirely unwelcome, meant that the life admin (I can’t use the word clusterf*ck any more) has been more or less ignored, except for the cancellation of my BT phone/broadband/tv package. Yes! I emerged triumphant from the “can I ask you why you’re leaving us?” to which I replied curtly “I’ve gone back to Sky” and her face was shut. Or it was, after the usual bargaining banter. It was half hearted banter – she wasn’t exactly the Archbishop of Banterbury – but I deftly lobbed back her offers of discounts and extra channels with all the skill of a young Bjorn Borg (a seventies tennis idol whose flowing blond locks made me pore over my dad’s encyclopaedia (they taught me everything I knew about everything, alphabetically. I could’ve run a small country when I was 10) until I learned all the rules of a tennis match) until, exhausted, she gave up. “We’ll need all your equipment back” was her parting shot. I thought that was pretty lame, really. She can have her shitty Humax box back, complete with the two years of dust which has settled atop it. It made me think of engagement rings given back after a betrothal, only this ring is an Eluzabeth Duke at Argos diamonique ring of a TV/Broadband/Phone package. 

We wished each other well, promised to stay friends, did the “you put the phone down first” “No, YOU hang up” and so on and so forth until she hung up. I muttered “aye they’re no interested when you’re leaving them, they cannae get off the phone quick enough” when I realised she hadn’t hung up at all so I just burned the house down, changed my identity and ran away, like the snivelling coward I am. 

Good news is I’m now watching box sets on demand like a woman possessed including Dominic West in a puzzling told-in-flashback thing called The Affair in which he seems to be having The Affair with some nutter with a top lip like a duck. I’ve a feeling it won’t end well if the twelve episodes left to watch are anything to go by. And Dominic West will always be Fred West to me after his ITV portrayal, and that adds another layer of weirdness to the whole shebang. 

I’m working today. Ugh. 

Peace and love. 

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