Testing

Testing, 123

I JUST CANNAE DO IT CAPTAIN

Well, apparently I can't even do a Scottish accent in text. Never mind. I only lived there for four years.

I know I don't blog very often, and if I thought I had any level of readership then maybe I would apologise for my digital neglect - but I have no such delusions, so I really don't think an apology is necessary. I have been busy, and/or lazy, so I didn't post anything, and that is just how it goes.

Incidentally, that attitude (busy and/or lazy) is how I frequently get myself into the following situation: it is Thursday night, and I like to have the flat nice and tidy for Chris when he gets home from a week away, but I come home from whatever I was doing... and there it is: the washing up. It has hit critical mass, again. There is nothing left that does not need washing up. For three days, I have been drinking hard-water orange squash out of a ceramic noodle cup, and eating toast because it doesn't require a plate. And now the time has come, and it has to be done. I get close to the sink, and move a few plates. The smell begins to rise. Opening the window seems like a great idea until I am reminded, by the sight of a naked elderly man, that my kitchen window faces directly onto the bathroom window of the flat facing mine.
Is there a worse way to commence your least favourite household chore? I doubt it, somehow.

But I got it done! (I should note here that now, every time I say or hear any phrase relating to something getting done, I have to resist the urge to say "Git'r done!" because I watch far too much South Park.) And now my hands feel like sandpaper and my kitchen smells like crap. Having the window open does not make much difference; I will have to put some laundry on before I leave for work tomorrow. I love the smell of fresh laundry. How domestic of me! Never fear, though, I have not quite reached Housewife City just yet: I still occasionally get so drunk that I throw up, and then continue drinking. I am still in touch with my inner seventeen year old. What can I say - I don't think anybody's stomach reacts well to a combination of red wine, vodka, kahlua, amaretto and milk, when they have only eaten a bag of cheesy Doritos all day.

I can't believe I am blogging about doing the washing up and puking like an underage delinquent. I know it's 1am and I have been so sleep-deprived this week that my right eye has developed a sort of manic murderer twitch, but this blog entry is really taking the piss.

I am going to sign off before I start talking about my boobs.

Over and out.

January 20, 2009

In a hotel room in Egypt as night fell outside, I sat on the edge of the bed next to the man I will marry. We were quiet, watching the screen.
The scenes unfolding before us may have no real impact on the way we live our lives; but they will have an impact on the world we live them in, and for this reason I felt compelled to watch. Although we had no say in the election of this man, thousands and thousands of others did - and replacing a feeling of animosity and scorn for a whole nation, there comes a feeling of pride.
It is sometimes hard to believe that people can still make the right choice when called upon to do so.
Now all that remains is to hope that this man can live up to his promises, and the expectations of the world.

"... and if you call it my 'wee-wee' again I shall kneecap you."

I have discovered something that makes me incredibly uncomfortable:

Medical professionals using slang or layman's anatomical terms.

You know, I don't actually find it reassuring talking to you about 'weeing'. You have been to med school and I am fairly sure you are aware that the correct term is 'urinating', and considering I have in fact used the word in conversation in the last two minutes, presumably you are also aware that I'm not too retarded to know what it means. Just because I am in here because I am worried about my health does not mean I wish to be comforted by you talking to me as if I am a toddler who is a bit sore after a particularly big poop, but thanks for making the effort to soothe me, I suppose.

No laughter! I am serious! I am so glad I'm not in here to talk to you about my reproductive system because god only knows how you would choose to refer to my vagina. 'Lady pocket'? 'Special place'? In fact I am tempted to come in again and fake a vagina-related problem just so I can find out.

Also, whilst I am relieved that I am not in fact displaying symptoms of imminent death by ravenous cancer, I still don't appreciate you laughing at your own diagnosis. "Oh yes, you have a nice wee infection! Hahaha!" Yeah, your laughter is encouraging. Don't worry, I didn't genuinely spend the entirety of my Saturday thinking I was dying. Seriously. Thanks. How about instead of £7.10 for those antibiotics, I just punch you in the bladder and we see if it hurts next time you 'go for a wee'.

WHO SAYS 'WEE INFECTION'?! HOW IS THAT PROFESSIONAL?!?!

Then again, who blogs about a bladder infection? Takes all kinds, I guess.

20

So. Twenty years old and not impressed. I miss being a teenager! I think I'll just keep telling people I'm nineteen... to be fair, I still get ID'd, and I got away with being 15 the other day, so I'm sure it'll work out fine.

I think I have a bit of a Peter Pan complex.

A short lesson.

Dear world:

This is something I think you should know. It may shock you. It may surprise you. You may cry like a little sissy girl. But I think you need to hear it, because really, it's been long enough now and it's getting a little bit fucking ridiculous.

PRINCESS DIANA IS DEAD.

Now I know you weren't expecting this, but it is true, and has in fact been true for the last TEN FUCKING YEARS, despite what the tabloids and the High Court would like you to believe. I am fed up of hearing the following on the news:

"Today at Princess Diana's court hearing it emerged that..."

You know what? Today at Princess Diana's court hearing, it emerged that SHE FUCKING DIED! TEN FUCKING YEARS AGO!

Can we have some real news now, PLEASE.

That is all.

________________

P.S. Dear God, whatever you want me to do to get that IT job, I'll do it. I swear. On your mum's life. Whatever that's worth.

Seriously.

YOU FAIL AT BADGERS!

So. I got smoked out of Waterstones by the hotdog man outside to the church next door playing the same fucking "Lord of Creation" song over and over again for fifteen minutes. As loud as he could. I could even hear it when I ran downstairs to hide out in the foreign languages section and try to make my way through the first page of Madame Bovary in the original French. I don't see why religion should drive me out of my quiet reading time. Does God think it's stealing if I stand there and read a whole book without paying for it? I really think he has bigger fish to fry, don't you? LEAVE ME ALONE!

My ears... they bleed.

In other news. Nothing.