In from outside again

There is nothing like a good dose of winter to get me out of outside and in to inside and blogging again. After all, my nearest pub is fifteen minutes walk away and tonight it just aint worth it. Ok, that's a lie, my nearest pub is right across the street but it's 'Night of the Living Dead' over there, and I think it's one of these places that still bans women.......

So it's just me, my winter blues and hot milk with gingerbread syrup. I suppose things could be worse.

But then I remember it's winter, and things already are worse. The Yorkshire Pudding is working, I've had to make my own dinner and there's nothing good on TV - Oh the humanity!!!!!

In a desperate attempt to remain sane I bought one of those Sadlight thingimies that have been advertised everywhere, for the bargain price of £99. In all fairness it works and makes me feel a hundred times better. It's just the blinding headaches I get from subjection to it's oh-so-wonderful rays that I have slight objection to. The cure becomes the illness and there is no solution in sight.

But I won't suffer in silence. Oh no.

As the year starts to fade out in a pathetic little fart of exhaustion, maybe I should change my name to Little Miss Meldrew.........

To Kill a Sex Life #3: Jakey Neighbours from Hell Part II

Remember the neighbours who were keeping me up with all kinds of nonsense, late into the night? 

Today I was walking with the Pudding, about ten minutes from home.  We were crossing the street when a couple next to us started shouting at each other.  I called it early – I could tell from the slurred, gravelly speech and choice vocabulary - they were the neighbours from hell!!

The Pudding was sceptical, but we followed them all the way home.  The woman shouted garbled obscenities while the man followed her, scuffing his feet about five paces behind.  She was wrapped up against the cold in a glorified bin bag and underneath hHHis baseball cap I could see a Mohawk gone wrong.  His face was red, but he walked with the steady gait of one who was used to handling alcohol. 

Yes, it was Them. 

Like secret agents, we hid behind the bin shed until they had disappeared inside. Two minutes later we were in our flat and, seconds after that, what started blasting out but sixties classics, starting with ‘Build me up Buttercup’  (not Beyonce, thank goodness!).  They both started singing heartily.  It was their makeup song.  At least one couple are getting laid despite the racket.

And at least this time it is only 10pm.  We are going to crack the wine open and have a good old-fashioned singsong.  After all, if you can’t beat’em……..

Close Your Eyes

I have a question.  What happens to your eyeballs when you close your eyes?

It is the strangest sensation when your eyes are closed and you start thinking about what direction you are looking at.  Sure, all you see is black, but because of this it does not feel like your eyes are moving.  Although they must be because you are definitely sending that signal from your brain!  Right, left, up, down…….

See – confusing isn’t it? 

The only way to know where your eyes actually are is to open them and see where they’ve moved.  Moreover, if I think about it too much then I get this tingly feeling in my closed eyes and freak out that they have swivelled right round to the back of my head.  Then comes the momentary fear that when I open them I will see my brains. 

Whoever invented eyes weren’t thinking it through when they added the eyelid.

Don't spoil my dream!!

I got ID’d for a lottery ticket at the weekend!!

At 26 years old you might think that this is as good as winning the lottery itself, but 16?  Really?

The years I spent travelling have not been kind and have given me some amount of sun damage (healthy characterisation mind you - I’m no prune), so I did ask the woman if she was serious. 

Without humour she said,

“ We think the age is 21 here.” 

Oh you do, do you?  Well, the law thinks otherwise. What an idiot!!

It was 4.40pm on Saturday.  What if I did not have my driver’s licence with me?  Would she have refused to serve me?  And then, if my numbers had come up??

I take the lottery very seriously.  It is my ticket to freedom and a villa in Spain; to Alejandro the topless gardener and sangria by the pool with my Pudding; to long golden sunsets and even longer lazy mornings. 

Don’t mess with my dreams people……!!!

T**** Addict

My boyfriend is an addict.  It is a relief to get it out in the open at last, it has been such a weight on my mind. 

The Yorkshire Pudding (as I like to call him) is perfect in every other way - in my eyes at least - but when it comes to a certain supermarket he is off the rails. 

Living right next to a huge, brand-spanking-new 24-hour store has its advantages, but every night we find ourselves there, scouring the discount isle for all the must-haves that we did not know we needed.  What a minefield, getting past the protruding elbows and witty banter each customer uses to mask the undignified scramble that is taking place; everyone pushing and shoving to ensure they get their hands on a bargain. 

As in War of the Roses (me playing Kathleen Turner next to his Michael Douglas), The Yorkshire Pudding is dragging me down with him.  I follow him more and more regularly, eager to see what goodies are in store.  We have moved from the food section and branched out to clothing and household items.  Where else can you buy a Christmas tree for £2.50?   It was such a good deal we put ours up, fully decorated, in mid-November. 

Rock bottom: the turning point for every addict. 

Mine came last weekend.  It had been a big Saturday night, the empty bottles strewn across the bedroom floor on Sunday morning were testament of that.  Of course our first thought was to the supermarket and the carb-riddled delights which would help us through our hangover. 

We made it as far as the in-store cafe before we came to a stop, tempted by all the cakes and steaming cups of tea.  There we sat for the next hour, just eating.  Somewhere during my second cream scone I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror; a sad shell of the lively girl I used to be when my life did not revolve around the supermarket.  My own flat with kitchen was across one street and up one flight of stairs, fully equipped to make anything our stomachs could require.  We were incapable of buying the necessary ingredients; of moving from this wonderful haven.  And we were frittering away £'s at a time for the privilege of mediocre service.

It is tenacious love hate relationship, but I have had a moment of clarity.  Don't worry guys, I'm getting help.  It's the Yorkshire Pudding I'm worried about. 

To Kill A Sex Life #2: Jakey Neighbours from Hell

What better way to kill a sex life than sleep deprivation: the kind that would make a vegetable out of the best of us?

Jake:  A Glaswegian term for a lowlife drunk who has dubious cleaning habits and typically nasally speech. 

We have two such class acts living next to us.  Luckily, we share an adjoining wall but use different entrance halls so manage to maintain minimal contact.  However, this also means we cannot just march across the corridor and bang on their door at 3am when they turn up Elton John, warbling along to Candle in the Wind.

Usually all we have to contend with is their shouting at each other twice a week when they are so drunk that their speech slurs together and the only words we can distinguish are ‘fuck’, ‘arsehole’, ‘bitch’ and other terms of Jakey endearment.  Bless.   But things have just got worse.  Last night Elton was replaced by Beyonce bloody Knowles and we had the joy of listening to ‘Halo’ on repeat.  What a bloody song choice.  I mean, it is repetitive enough at the best of times!  Some uninspired songwriter was having a laugh I’m sure, seeing how many people would buy an idiotic song with the same word repeated a gazillion times (yes, I counted, and gazillion is a real number) just because Beyonce sings it.  There is enough repetition throughout the horror show of the original track without then playing the song incessantly! 

I fell asleep with the Yorkshire Pudding’s finger in my ear as I fought to keep it out. 

Naked Tuesday

Crank up the heating, close the blinds and slip out of that babygrow – it’s time for Naked Tuesday!

Add music, candles and draw a long bath; do whatever else tickles your fancy.  The only rule: no clothes on Naked Tuesday!

I experienced my first last night with the Yorkshire Pudding.  It was…….lovely.