Thursday 10th March 2016
I’m listening to Cher and I don’t care who knows it. It could out me as gay, but so be it. I needed something poppy and uplifting and Cher, bless her skimpy outfits, fits the biscuit. I defy anyone not to have a hip wiggle to a Cher tune.
WTF! Who stole February? It acted true to its leap status this year and leapt away as quick as it could. We’ll have to wait another four years for that extra day to come round again.
I know I moaned about us not having had a proper winter here in old Blighty this year, but I’m going to go the other way now and moan about us having too much winter at the moment. It’s too late. Winter had its chance and it fluffed it. It has no right to be clogging up the spring calendar with frosty shenanigans. It’s almost Easter for the love of Mike. We want sunshine and daffs, not ice and sleet.
Damn. I wish I hadn’t mentioned Easter. It’s brought on a fresh cold front. There’s talk of Penny and the Muppet coming up for a few days bringing Shane’s dad with them. I’m hoping ‘the talk’ is actually a bad dream I had and nothing will come of it.
Judging from my mailbag, my decision not to tell Ponytail Girl she had a spider roaming footloose and fancy free through her hair was a wise one. Apparently no woman on earth, and not many blokes, would appreciate being told they were playing involuntary host to a hairy arachnid. As ever, on the mail front, let me say hello, and ta very much to all those, old and new, who have written to me with kind words, sweet offers, funny observations and profound thoughts. It is appreciated. And to answer a question, no, it is not my personal person adorning the front covers of my booky wooks. :)
My friend Eileen has been very poorly. She’s had a really bad chest infection. I was so worried about her. Thankfully she’s on the mend, though I’m still popping over the road to help her out while she’s recovering her strength. I went over last Sunday evening to make her some supper and keep her company for a while, as I have been doing for the past few weeks. I braced myself to watch ‘Call the Midwife’ on telly with her. She loves it. Dick loves it too, but he has to watch it on the iplayer while at work, because Shane won’t give it houseroom. No way is he sitting through an hour of poverty stricken women screeching their way through the horrors of childbirth while being attended to by nuns. It is so NOT his cup of tea.
I have to say, having watched CTM, I’m secretly glad it’s banned in our house. I mean, for fuck’s sake, how can anyone watch it every week without needing some kind of emotional counselling to get over it? There’s always a tragedy or two. Last week’s episode was even more traumatic than usual. Thank god Eileen had a new box of man size tissues on standby. She knows what I’m like when watching emosh stuff. By the end of the episode I was almost at the bottom of the box. Eileen wasn’t completely immune to the tug at her heartstrings. When the credits finally rolled she had a misty look in her eyes. On the other hand I looked like I’d been caught in a monsoon downpour there was so much water gushing down my face. It’s so embarrassing to have zero control over your emotions.
I tried to compose myself before going home, but the men folk knew I’d been through a TV Trauma Event. They exchanged looks, but wisely said nothing, though I could tell Dick was torn between wanting to interrogate me and not wanting any spoilers to ruin his lunchtime catch up at the office. Posh folk do so love to tune into anything outside their sphere of experience. I bet his blue-blooded mater didn’t utter a word during childbirth. She’d have just bitten on a solid silver spoon while her Harley Street doctor delivered Dick and his sis straight from her womb into the nanny’s arms. The nanny probably then chewed off their umbilical cords with her teeth before depositing the infants in a luxury cot big enough to house several East End families.
Moving on, again.
Some folk seem puzzled about winkles, as mentioned in a previous post. What are winkles? Well, in the UK, winkles are small edible sea snails. I believe they are called periwinkles in parts of the USA. I seem to be plagued by snails in one form or another, as in the case of the winkle on the bus. Before you ask, no, UK winkles do not usually travel on buses. I will tell the tale of that encounter one of these days.
Right. Cher has finished ‘Walking In Memphis’ so I’m off to see to din-dins for the daddies. I’m going to leave you with a mild rant.
It is my profound belief that anyone who spits in the street should be executed on the spot. Without wishing to offend anyone I’d like it made law that anyone who gobs on the pavement should be subject to immediate annihilation by specially programmed drones. The moment some dirty, inconsiderate bastard starts peppering the pavement with the ugly, unpleasant, germ ridden contents of their congested lungs (man at the bust stop yesterday I am thinking of you) a drone should swoop from the sky and blast them to kingdom come along with the unsavoury mess they have deposited on the street for other folks to tread in. Use a fucking tissue and then take your disgusting, slimy, unsightly sputum home with you to dispose of. DO NOT SPIT! OK? JUST DON’T! Thank you.