need to start putting stuff on here again.
Thats it really.
More tomorrow.
x
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Saturday, 5 January 2008
Relax.
I'm back. Woo. Breathe a collected sigh of relief. As it happens, my decision to begin writing again currently coincides with The Bear having misplaced some photography magazines. I HATE when he loses shit. At the moment I am adopting the facade of an exasperated parent, trying to ignore the swearing and the clattering and banging emanating from downstairs, occasionally shouting 'have you looked in the magazine rack DEAR?'
I am refusing to go and help. Primarily because I know I will walk downstairs to find him scratching his head (Itchy Head Syndrome being a sure sign of proper Rage), swearing, knocking stuff over, and within thirty seconds I will locate the offending items. In. The. Exact. Same. Place. I. Told. Him. To. Look. In. To. Begin. With.
Soon it is going to move into Phase Two. The 'Coming Up With Wild Irrational Theories' stage. In the past this has included 'The cats have fucking had them' (car keys) 'You planted that there to make me think I was going mental' (mobile phone, when it was in the car, where I said it was all along) and most recently (about six minutes ago) 'Ah-ha! You've stuffed them in with my comics!' Cue the frantic rummaging and potentially very expensive damage of several hundred 2000 AD and Marvel specimens. I didn't. The offending articles remain unfound. Until I have finished typing this anyway.
So. A massive gap again. This is primarily due to :
A) Abject laziness. No excuses, just was all despondent and that, and couldn't be arsed.
B) The House Move From Hell.
We left the Village Of Vampires (thats Rowhedge) at long last. It was possibly the worst move in history. Ever. To begin with we turned up to pick the keys for our new house, and the promised cleaning and re-decorating had not been completed. Either that, or perhaps its terribly 'now' in interior decorating to adopt 'Le Chic De Crack House'
Then we moved house. I dropped a fridge on my hand in the middle of the proceedings. I tore my hand open. It flapped all the way back and there was loads of blood, and you could see the fat and everything. The Bear was upset, I had an attack of Insta-Cry (TM) and we ruined some nice bedlinen by turning it into a tourniquet.
In what was probably the most depressing experience of my life, we cleaned well into the night at the old house, and then got back there for eight the following morning. When the hatchet-faced bitch of a landlady turned up, she walked imperiously around the house running her finger across skirting boards, saying things like 'Will you just give that a little wipe for me, yeah?' until my mind was flickering backwards and forwards at high speed with a plethora of violent images (smashing her face in with a hammer, then smearing it across the skirting board, whilst firmly and repeatedly kicking her in the vadge) It was a bit like that scene in the boat in the original Willy Wonka film. Only no sweeties at the end of it. And no Gene Wilder. But I bit my tongue. Mainly because the hideous old cunt had twelve hundred quid of our money. Most of which we did get back (bar a £3.50 deduction for a missing lightbulb) Yep. A lightbulb. Anyway, her husbands just been made redundant, so hopefully they will end up losing everything they own and living under a bridge. Fingers crossed.
We then had to go back to the new house. And clean that. I have to say, cleaning vomit (someone elses vomit, I might add) one handed, off a radiator, probably represents a new personal low for me. But whatever, its done now. The house looks lovely and we are comfortably ensconsed in the Dutch Quarter. And it fucking rules.
3. Christmas
The usual combination of gluttony, avoiding socialising (why is it at Christmas I get about twelfty billion invitations to go out drinking with people I used to work with? I don't even socialise with the ones I work with now. You would think they would take the hint after the sixth year of telling them that due to having been involved in a freak sparrowhawk incident I won't be able to make it) and all that. I got some nice presents from The Bear. Including in the next couple of weeks, a sewing machine. So I can actually start doing something about making clothes and that. Hopefully finding a creative outlet will stop me spending most of my working life silently screaming. Although I doubt it.
So er, thats it for now. I've ranted for quite long enough. More soon about mine and The Bears radical lifestyle overhaul. Its all edge of your seat stuff round these parts. Oh yes.
I am refusing to go and help. Primarily because I know I will walk downstairs to find him scratching his head (Itchy Head Syndrome being a sure sign of proper Rage), swearing, knocking stuff over, and within thirty seconds I will locate the offending items. In. The. Exact. Same. Place. I. Told. Him. To. Look. In. To. Begin. With.
Soon it is going to move into Phase Two. The 'Coming Up With Wild Irrational Theories' stage. In the past this has included 'The cats have fucking had them' (car keys) 'You planted that there to make me think I was going mental' (mobile phone, when it was in the car, where I said it was all along) and most recently (about six minutes ago) 'Ah-ha! You've stuffed them in with my comics!' Cue the frantic rummaging and potentially very expensive damage of several hundred 2000 AD and Marvel specimens. I didn't. The offending articles remain unfound. Until I have finished typing this anyway.
So. A massive gap again. This is primarily due to :
A) Abject laziness. No excuses, just was all despondent and that, and couldn't be arsed.
B) The House Move From Hell.
We left the Village Of Vampires (thats Rowhedge) at long last. It was possibly the worst move in history. Ever. To begin with we turned up to pick the keys for our new house, and the promised cleaning and re-decorating had not been completed. Either that, or perhaps its terribly 'now' in interior decorating to adopt 'Le Chic De Crack House'
Then we moved house. I dropped a fridge on my hand in the middle of the proceedings. I tore my hand open. It flapped all the way back and there was loads of blood, and you could see the fat and everything. The Bear was upset, I had an attack of Insta-Cry (TM) and we ruined some nice bedlinen by turning it into a tourniquet.
In what was probably the most depressing experience of my life, we cleaned well into the night at the old house, and then got back there for eight the following morning. When the hatchet-faced bitch of a landlady turned up, she walked imperiously around the house running her finger across skirting boards, saying things like 'Will you just give that a little wipe for me, yeah?' until my mind was flickering backwards and forwards at high speed with a plethora of violent images (smashing her face in with a hammer, then smearing it across the skirting board, whilst firmly and repeatedly kicking her in the vadge) It was a bit like that scene in the boat in the original Willy Wonka film. Only no sweeties at the end of it. And no Gene Wilder. But I bit my tongue. Mainly because the hideous old cunt had twelve hundred quid of our money. Most of which we did get back (bar a £3.50 deduction for a missing lightbulb) Yep. A lightbulb. Anyway, her husbands just been made redundant, so hopefully they will end up losing everything they own and living under a bridge. Fingers crossed.
We then had to go back to the new house. And clean that. I have to say, cleaning vomit (someone elses vomit, I might add) one handed, off a radiator, probably represents a new personal low for me. But whatever, its done now. The house looks lovely and we are comfortably ensconsed in the Dutch Quarter. And it fucking rules.
3. Christmas
The usual combination of gluttony, avoiding socialising (why is it at Christmas I get about twelfty billion invitations to go out drinking with people I used to work with? I don't even socialise with the ones I work with now. You would think they would take the hint after the sixth year of telling them that due to having been involved in a freak sparrowhawk incident I won't be able to make it) and all that. I got some nice presents from The Bear. Including in the next couple of weeks, a sewing machine. So I can actually start doing something about making clothes and that. Hopefully finding a creative outlet will stop me spending most of my working life silently screaming. Although I doubt it.
So er, thats it for now. I've ranted for quite long enough. More soon about mine and The Bears radical lifestyle overhaul. Its all edge of your seat stuff round these parts. Oh yes.
Wednesday, 12 September 2007
Another Day, Another Blog
Not that I know why I bother, as no fucker ever comments me anymore. Not since I stopped blogging on the 'spaz. Probably because I'm not simply posting up grainy black and white photos of my shoes.
Well. This is real life dammit.
(Chill out boys, your photos are very nice, and I AM taking the piss)
I am concerned tonight. Mister Harman has gone skating and I can hear whooping outside. People who live in villages should not whoop. In fact, unless you live in Nowheretown, Middle America, then you shouldn't whoop. And even then it's questionable.
The Village (thats Rowhedge, not the disappointing film by M.Night Shamalamadingdong or whatever he's called) is starting to get right on my fucking tits. Friday night, we went to bed early (because, much as we hate to admit it, we are OLD) and at just gone midnight got woken up by some sort of to-do outside. Turns out that underneath our bedroom window was a fat woman with a pitbull, talking to a drunk man circling around in an unstable manner on a push bike. They were providing a running commentary on an even drunker woman who was wearing white denim, which is quite upsetting enough as it is, but who was crawling up the pavement making abortive attempts to grab what she claimed was her cat.
Cycle Man 'Where's she going then eh? hic!'
Fat Pitbull Lady 'Well Dave I dunno I feel really sorry for 'er. Its like what happened when my Barry left me innit?'
Etc etc. For about fifteen minutes. I decided to go for a wee, and promised myself if it was still going on then I would go postal. Upon my return it was, so I opened the window and screeched at them like a fishwife. I'm not proud, but it meant I could go back to napping. And to be frank, I wasn't that bothered about hearing about what happened when Barry ended up bumming Fat PitBull Lady's niece. Who incidentally, was just 18.
On Monday night even weirder goings on occurred. Mister Harman sat bolt upright at about half twelve yelling
'One of the cats is injured!'
And ran downstairs in his pants. The cats were sat in the kitchen looking nonplussed, and remarkably uninjured.
We returned to bed, by now, fully awake. Cats were scrapping outside. Thus the Harmans belief that ours were scrapping (despite our cats being overly pampered creatures, fat on Iams, who never actually leave the safety of the back garden, except to get stuck behind next doors shed). We calmed ourselves.
And then. The pan pipes started. Yes. The Fucking Pan Pipes. In Rowhedge. At one o'clock in the morning. Brilliant.
We are now moving out at the beginning of December. Not just cos of the pan pipes and Royston Vasey-esque goings on. Although that doesn't help. A move into town is just what I need.
What I need even more right now is a sleep. I got into work this morning at half six, I've been holepunched again, and I need a bloody nap.
Well. This is real life dammit.
(Chill out boys, your photos are very nice, and I AM taking the piss)
I am concerned tonight. Mister Harman has gone skating and I can hear whooping outside. People who live in villages should not whoop. In fact, unless you live in Nowheretown, Middle America, then you shouldn't whoop. And even then it's questionable.
The Village (thats Rowhedge, not the disappointing film by M.Night Shamalamadingdong or whatever he's called) is starting to get right on my fucking tits. Friday night, we went to bed early (because, much as we hate to admit it, we are OLD) and at just gone midnight got woken up by some sort of to-do outside. Turns out that underneath our bedroom window was a fat woman with a pitbull, talking to a drunk man circling around in an unstable manner on a push bike. They were providing a running commentary on an even drunker woman who was wearing white denim, which is quite upsetting enough as it is, but who was crawling up the pavement making abortive attempts to grab what she claimed was her cat.
Cycle Man 'Where's she going then eh? hic!'
Fat Pitbull Lady 'Well Dave I dunno I feel really sorry for 'er. Its like what happened when my Barry left me innit?'
Etc etc. For about fifteen minutes. I decided to go for a wee, and promised myself if it was still going on then I would go postal. Upon my return it was, so I opened the window and screeched at them like a fishwife. I'm not proud, but it meant I could go back to napping. And to be frank, I wasn't that bothered about hearing about what happened when Barry ended up bumming Fat PitBull Lady's niece. Who incidentally, was just 18.
On Monday night even weirder goings on occurred. Mister Harman sat bolt upright at about half twelve yelling
'One of the cats is injured!'
And ran downstairs in his pants. The cats were sat in the kitchen looking nonplussed, and remarkably uninjured.
We returned to bed, by now, fully awake. Cats were scrapping outside. Thus the Harmans belief that ours were scrapping (despite our cats being overly pampered creatures, fat on Iams, who never actually leave the safety of the back garden, except to get stuck behind next doors shed). We calmed ourselves.
And then. The pan pipes started. Yes. The Fucking Pan Pipes. In Rowhedge. At one o'clock in the morning. Brilliant.
We are now moving out at the beginning of December. Not just cos of the pan pipes and Royston Vasey-esque goings on. Although that doesn't help. A move into town is just what I need.
What I need even more right now is a sleep. I got into work this morning at half six, I've been holepunched again, and I need a bloody nap.
Monday, 3 September 2007
Nigella has No Bite. Anymore
I hate it when the people you look up to disappoint you.
I've just watched 'Nigella Express' The woman has become a caricature of herself. I always loved her despite her penchant for denim jackets and her peculiarly fat wrists. But now shes like an imbecilic rictus-grinned even more uber-posh shadow of her former self.
Fair enough (just about) poussin for a week night supper, although I can just imagine Mister Harmans face if I served him up 'midget chickens'. But caramel croissant pudding for an after the pub snack?
Does Nigella ever actually go out drinking? I know they showed her sipping demurely on champagne, but FFS. Most people are too busy smearing kebab in their eye, or spending fifteen minutes shouting at their front door out of frustration because the key won't go in the lock.
Are we going to come in and make CARAMEL? Something that I can barely do stone cold sober without creating a small house fire? Are we then going to whisk eggs into a hot caramel cream mixture without scrambling them? Are we then going to wait fifteen minutes for it to cook? Ladies and gentlemen...I give you ScramblyEggHouseFirePudding.
No thanks Nigella. I'm all for culinary experimentation, but when I'm horribly pissed, I'll settle for a bowl of crunchy nut.
I've just watched 'Nigella Express' The woman has become a caricature of herself. I always loved her despite her penchant for denim jackets and her peculiarly fat wrists. But now shes like an imbecilic rictus-grinned even more uber-posh shadow of her former self.
Fair enough (just about) poussin for a week night supper, although I can just imagine Mister Harmans face if I served him up 'midget chickens'. But caramel croissant pudding for an after the pub snack?
Does Nigella ever actually go out drinking? I know they showed her sipping demurely on champagne, but FFS. Most people are too busy smearing kebab in their eye, or spending fifteen minutes shouting at their front door out of frustration because the key won't go in the lock.
Are we going to come in and make CARAMEL? Something that I can barely do stone cold sober without creating a small house fire? Are we then going to whisk eggs into a hot caramel cream mixture without scrambling them? Are we then going to wait fifteen minutes for it to cook? Ladies and gentlemen...I give you ScramblyEggHouseFirePudding.
No thanks Nigella. I'm all for culinary experimentation, but when I'm horribly pissed, I'll settle for a bowl of crunchy nut.
Sunday, 2 September 2007
I love
...my best friend. Here is an old myspace blog which illustrates why. If it wasn't for her, I would have gone mad years ago. She is the tits.
So. Me and the Fox had a day out yesterday. We felt we deserved it, as we havent had a HelenandVickieDayOut for aaaaages.
I wanted to go to Lahhhhhdaaahhhnnn. She wanted to go to Bluewater. I gave in to her, as one of the prime reasons for going was for her to buy me presents.
Made it over to Kents little piece of Hades in record time. Three objectives consisted of getting a suit for Victoria, presents for me, and an outfit for a one year old.
Aimless wandering ensued, with Vickie shrieking about how fat she was whenever I picked a suit out for her. A detour to the Disney Store so that Vickie could try on witches hats and pull witchy faces whilst I took photos.
Then. Lunch. Subjects for discussion included who out of our friends is having affairs, Victorias general displeasure at her boyfriend (cue scared looking waiter nearly dropping a pile of crockery as Vickie announced 'Its only been eight months we should still be fucking ALL THE TIME!') and female circumcision (cue the same waiter nearly dropping dead as Victoria proclaimed 'Apparently in some countries, they sew the flaps up')
Then. Presents were bought. An ace wristband ('Boys are stupid throw rocks at them') and t shirt ('I'm a gold digger, its like a hooker, only smarter') from David and Goliath, and a stripy top thing and some accessories in Oasis. We managed to get Vickie a suit. We cooed over small clothes in Mothercare (I am still slightly worried about this) and purchased the child a nice outfit.
Then. Made our way home.
Except that 'Channel Tunnel' and 'Dartford Tunnel' are apparently interchangeable for Vickie. Either that or she wanted to abduct me to France.
Cue frantic phonecall to my Papa who managed to direct us back the right way. And then the best conversation ever, which started when we were talking about Lost
Vickie : 'Its all bollocks anyway, they would have eaten each other by now'
Me 'Well they dont need to, they have a sustainable food source'
V 'So, no one has said 'Why don't we eat each other?''
Me 'Nooooo'
V 'Oh right. Seems odd to me'
Me 'Remind me never to get on a plane with you again.'
V 'I'd totally eat you'
Me 'Wow. Remind me never to even share a bed with you again. I don't want to wake up in the night and find you gnawing at my shin'
V 'So you wouldn't eat me? Not even if you were hungry?'
Me 'I think I would be more traumatised about the fact that I had just been in a plane crash and my best friend was dead to be honest'
V 'You're overreacting. I would wait until you were dead. And I wouldn't eat your face.'
Me 'Thats the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me'
V 'Yeah I'd keep your head'
Me 'On a stick?'
V 'No in a jar'
Me 'So you're stranded on a desert island and you just so happen to have a human head sized jar laying around'
V 'No. I pack one every time I get on a plane. It would be good. I could take you out and talk to you, and stroke your hair. Sometimes I think I would give you crazy haircuts and put make up on you and that.'
Enough said really
Like a brother from another mother. But with girls, obviously.
So. Me and the Fox had a day out yesterday. We felt we deserved it, as we havent had a HelenandVickieDayOut for aaaaages.
I wanted to go to Lahhhhhdaaahhhnnn. She wanted to go to Bluewater. I gave in to her, as one of the prime reasons for going was for her to buy me presents.
Made it over to Kents little piece of Hades in record time. Three objectives consisted of getting a suit for Victoria, presents for me, and an outfit for a one year old.
Aimless wandering ensued, with Vickie shrieking about how fat she was whenever I picked a suit out for her. A detour to the Disney Store so that Vickie could try on witches hats and pull witchy faces whilst I took photos.
Then. Lunch. Subjects for discussion included who out of our friends is having affairs, Victorias general displeasure at her boyfriend (cue scared looking waiter nearly dropping a pile of crockery as Vickie announced 'Its only been eight months we should still be fucking ALL THE TIME!') and female circumcision (cue the same waiter nearly dropping dead as Victoria proclaimed 'Apparently in some countries, they sew the flaps up')
Then. Presents were bought. An ace wristband ('Boys are stupid throw rocks at them') and t shirt ('I'm a gold digger, its like a hooker, only smarter') from David and Goliath, and a stripy top thing and some accessories in Oasis. We managed to get Vickie a suit. We cooed over small clothes in Mothercare (I am still slightly worried about this) and purchased the child a nice outfit.
Then. Made our way home.
Except that 'Channel Tunnel' and 'Dartford Tunnel' are apparently interchangeable for Vickie. Either that or she wanted to abduct me to France.
Cue frantic phonecall to my Papa who managed to direct us back the right way. And then the best conversation ever, which started when we were talking about Lost
Vickie : 'Its all bollocks anyway, they would have eaten each other by now'
Me 'Well they dont need to, they have a sustainable food source'
V 'So, no one has said 'Why don't we eat each other?''
Me 'Nooooo'
V 'Oh right. Seems odd to me'
Me 'Remind me never to get on a plane with you again.'
V 'I'd totally eat you'
Me 'Wow. Remind me never to even share a bed with you again. I don't want to wake up in the night and find you gnawing at my shin'
V 'So you wouldn't eat me? Not even if you were hungry?'
Me 'I think I would be more traumatised about the fact that I had just been in a plane crash and my best friend was dead to be honest'
V 'You're overreacting. I would wait until you were dead. And I wouldn't eat your face.'
Me 'Thats the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me'
V 'Yeah I'd keep your head'
Me 'On a stick?'
V 'No in a jar'
Me 'So you're stranded on a desert island and you just so happen to have a human head sized jar laying around'
V 'No. I pack one every time I get on a plane. It would be good. I could take you out and talk to you, and stroke your hair. Sometimes I think I would give you crazy haircuts and put make up on you and that.'
Enough said really
Like a brother from another mother. But with girls, obviously.
Sunday Sunday
Life has been taking over again. As has laziness. Thus minimal blogging for a while.
The Drama Llamas hit town again. I'm not going to go into details on here, those of you that know, know. Fortunately, we have plenty of amazing people around us who provide a faultless support network for Mark and I, for which we are incredibly grateful.
In any case, the end result of all the grief (not to mention this fucking medication) is that I am given to the fairly regular outbursts of inexplicable tears. This is a disturbing, and hopefully temporary phenomena.
I am not a 'crier'. A dear friend of mine once commented that she thought I only cried on average, once every six years. Not anymore...the floodgates are well and truly open. The television schedules have become a veritable minefield. Miami Ink, various wildlife documentaries, wedding programmes, all of these have made me well up recently.
The pinnacle of them all was watching 'When The Levee Breaks', Spike Lee's documentary about the aftermath of the disaster in New Orleans.
Until Mark came into the room. As we watched the distressing scene of an eighty five year old woman being taken back to the remnants of her house he snapped
Old Woman 'Whats that china cabinet doing there? That don't got no business being over there'
Mark 'OH MY GOD. Do you realise what happened here? Do you? 70ft of water came through your house, at about a hundred miles an hour. It doesn't have any respect for feng shui or placement of knick-knacks!!!'
Suffice to say its hard to carry on crying in that situation.
In any case. This weekend has been good, and has definitely lifted my spirits somewhat. Friday night was Stick On Beard night. We went to Vickies, drank wine, ate chilli, and wore stick on beards. Watching Vickie sing 'Baby Got Back' on kareoke, whilst wearing a giant black bushy beard, is a memory that will never leave me.
Russ' 30th was last night. I don't think I have laughed so much in a very long time. Good company, good Pimms, and amazing food, thanks to Heathers hostess skills.
Bad stuff happening makes you appreciate your friends more I think. And we are very very lucky to have the ones we do.
I'm off to make a roast chicken dinner. Laters.
The Drama Llamas hit town again. I'm not going to go into details on here, those of you that know, know. Fortunately, we have plenty of amazing people around us who provide a faultless support network for Mark and I, for which we are incredibly grateful.
In any case, the end result of all the grief (not to mention this fucking medication) is that I am given to the fairly regular outbursts of inexplicable tears. This is a disturbing, and hopefully temporary phenomena.
I am not a 'crier'. A dear friend of mine once commented that she thought I only cried on average, once every six years. Not anymore...the floodgates are well and truly open. The television schedules have become a veritable minefield. Miami Ink, various wildlife documentaries, wedding programmes, all of these have made me well up recently.
The pinnacle of them all was watching 'When The Levee Breaks', Spike Lee's documentary about the aftermath of the disaster in New Orleans.
Until Mark came into the room. As we watched the distressing scene of an eighty five year old woman being taken back to the remnants of her house he snapped
Old Woman 'Whats that china cabinet doing there? That don't got no business being over there'
Mark 'OH MY GOD. Do you realise what happened here? Do you? 70ft of water came through your house, at about a hundred miles an hour. It doesn't have any respect for feng shui or placement of knick-knacks!!!'
Suffice to say its hard to carry on crying in that situation.
In any case. This weekend has been good, and has definitely lifted my spirits somewhat. Friday night was Stick On Beard night. We went to Vickies, drank wine, ate chilli, and wore stick on beards. Watching Vickie sing 'Baby Got Back' on kareoke, whilst wearing a giant black bushy beard, is a memory that will never leave me.
Russ' 30th was last night. I don't think I have laughed so much in a very long time. Good company, good Pimms, and amazing food, thanks to Heathers hostess skills.
Bad stuff happening makes you appreciate your friends more I think. And we are very very lucky to have the ones we do.
I'm off to make a roast chicken dinner. Laters.
Sunday, 12 August 2007
The end result.
Yep. Then I end up barefoot on the grounds of a beautiful house, thinking I am Karen O or something.
God I'm a knob.
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