Tuesday 13th September 2011

 

I'm here, putting up a page for September, but don't go expecting sweetness and light.

Dick came downstairs holding a white shirt in his hands this morning, moaning because it had yellowish marks under the arms. He accused me of not laundering it properly.

Well excuse me, but I think I know how to properly launder a fucking shirt. I use Persil biological liquid I do, concentrated, and double the amount it tells you to, because I don't believe one small capful can possibly wash a full load properly. In fact some days I use treble the amount!

Snatching the shirt out of his hands I stuffed it in the pedal bin and told him I'd replace it at my own expense seeing as he was under the impression I'd ruined it with my inept laundering, when it fact the yellow marks were the result of his armpits leaking the equivalent of battery acid. Underarm piss that's what caused the discoloration.

A small discussion about attitude followed. Backside smarting I retrieved the shirt from the bin and put it in the laundry basket to be washed again. He went off to work wearing a pale blue shirt whose underarms passed scrutiny. Self was warned to get the shitty mood under control before he returned to the quasi-mansion this evening. The usual morning kiss of farewell was abandoned in favour of a hefty slap across my arse.

The post arrived. Dick and Shane had several letters each, they looked to be a mix of bank and business. I had three letters, all asking me to cough up in support of various charities. Now I'm all for charity and help out when I can, but sometimes I get fed up of being solicited in my own home. It pisses me off that when you donate to one charity your name goes on some kind of official 'easy-touch' list and you then get inundated with letters from charitable organisations all trying to guilt you into donating to their cause, preferably on a regular basis and by direct debit.

One from a cancer charity particularly annoyed me today. It had this message printed on its front: cancer doesn't care if you put me in the bin. Now my mother died of cancer and I've donated any number of times to cancer charities and will continue to do so, but not to that one, because I don't like being emotionally blackmailed. I tore it in half and shoved it in the bin and do I feel guilty? Yes I do, but fuck it!

I don't know who decided that adding Febreeze (cotton fresh) to Flash (all purpose cleaning spray) was a good idea, but when I find out I'm going to sue the bastard. They deserve to be prosecuted for unleashing chemical warfare on an unsuspecting public. The fucking stuff should come with a free gas mask. It's dangerous so don't buy it. I cleaned the bathrooms with it this morning and I was all but overcome with the fumes. I haven't stopped coughing since. The stuff is like fucking mustard gas. It's burning my lungs out. I've chucked it in the bin.

I think it's fair to say I'm having a rubbish day. If it were physically possible I'd scrunch it up and shove it in the bin.

 

OCTOBER 2011

 
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