Can't think of a title!
2008-11-17, 9:42 p.m.
Meant to post this a bazillionty years ago and then forgot � if you go on Poolagirl�s diary it will explain the proper ins and outs but, basically, all you do is google-pics your name and see what comes up. My name�s the same as a famous person�s sister so I had to trawl through a shitload of pics of a slightly winsome looking bint with a pie-crust frilled blouse on, til I found this!
A fucking great big boat! With my name down the side of it in humungous great letters! I�ve grafitti�d the name out, obviously, cos otherwise you will all stalk me (you will, I know you will, you�re just that type) so you�ll just have to believe me. I am unfeasibly impressed with the idea of a great big boat with my name on and if I�m ever in the Great Lakes I�m gonna go looking for that great big ole boat and DEMAND they take me on board and give me some rum. Or whatever it is they do on great big ole boats.
Eternal gratitude to Poola for the most excellent idea. If you haven�t already looked yourself up and told Poola all about it�then go do it for Meeeeeeeeeee!
Cant you just TELL that the photoshoot is properly over? I�m back to writing the usual pile of nonsensical wank with scant attention to grammar and syntax and all the things that I have to pay attention to at work. I�m Soooooo gonna post one of these entries in podcast stylee, then you can see that I talk Ed-Zachery like I write, which would explain that I am the laughing stock of my profession use this veehickle to let off steam and generally pretend to be in the pub, talking bollocks with my pals�which, coincidentally, is exactly what L is doing right now, while I am stuck in the house, minding the bloody children. Sheesh! I minded them before and nothing happened. How come I have to do it again?
Friday afternoon when the shoot finished (apart from the bit we did this morning. Shut Up), I got to hand out all the stuff we�d finished off and all the stuff we didn�t need anymore, which was a shitload of stuff. There�s still a load left which I will sell at work during this week � it wont raise more than �50 but it can go in the charity tin and give us all a warm fuzzy feeling.
Because I hid it where nobody else would find it nobody else wanted it, I got to bring this home
It is unlikely that L will ever be able to afford 50 red roses (this variety, Naomi, can be around �5/$10 each at some times of the year) and so I�m going to keep it alive as long as I possibly can and (occasionally) pretend that I am married to someone fabulously wealthy. Thanks very much to my bloody mother who, on seeing it (and seeing my expression which surely must have told her that I was really pleased to have it) said it looked �like something you�d see leant against the cenotaph�. Thanks, mum.
Oo! Oo! I forgot to say. Apropos of nothing at all, my mum told me she and my dad had been watching Sin City and that they saw some people having �Air Sex� � which is like Air Guitar�.but sex � I laughed so much and with such astonishing levels of incredulity that she made me do a Youtube search til I found some.
Lemme hear ya say EEEEEEEEUUUUUUUUUWWWWWWWW!!!!!!
(or lemme hear your lil fingers a-clicking on the keys while you frantically search for some scrawny Japanese VIRGINS making out with imaginary hot dates. Awwww. You people disgust me!)
Anyway, I digress. Its not that my mum and dad (both clanging on the doors of 70) were watching Sin City that worries me, it�s that my mum then said that they much prefer that to Sexcetera!
When they�d gone home, me and L just looked at each other and did that BIG EYE thing and went �SEXCETERA?!?!?!?!� and fell about laughing. No wonder I turned out like this. I blame the parents.
Slept in til lunchtime on Saturday � was actually asleep, not just lying there masturbating vegetating, so I guess I must�ve needed it. Eschewed the habitual Lidl shop in favour of a quick drive to Chigley to pick up a few bits and pieces. The Christmas Market was on (What! Middle of November? They�re leaving it a bit late, aren�t they?) and there was a group of gospel singers on a little platform in the middle, singing Oh Happy Day, which is about as fucking brilliant as Chigley gets. Not sure if the bemused-looking slack-jawed chavs wandering past with their carrier bags of tinselled crap really appreciated it but, hey, there�s no accounting for taste.
Managed to get out of the ghastly party in the evening by making Lee and Anne-Marie invite us for dinner. I made a pavlova the size of a dustbin lid to take with us. Anne Marie doesn�t do puddings�luckily she DOES do yummy tagliatelli with a sauce of tomatoes and Italian sausage and lamb and beef, and then roasted chicken with garlic and rosemary and a huge salad with avocado and olives and all sorts of swanky leaves (like rocket) that I cant afford. After that and the pavlova, I could barely squeeze down the thirty pounds of stinky Italian cheese that she�d bought.
It was all we could do after dinner to plop onto a chair in front of their iMax cinema screen telly and watch David Gilmour Live in Gdansk, thus rendering it unnecessary for me to buy the DVD for L for Christmas. Which is just as well as I can�t afford it. Lee says he�ll burn me a copy, but even I�m not so cheap as to give my husband pirate DVDs for Christmas. OK. Ok, I AM that cheap. But I won�t.
Sunday was a day for shagging � and I don�t mean the State Dance of South Carolina, neither! (see! I do my research!) � and I am pleased to note (actually, I am fucking DELIGHTED) that the recovery rate of a 46 year old man, still seems to be less than half an hour. Half an hour is about right, I think. That�s long enough to do the �you were fantastic� speech, get your breath back and get cracking on round two. Any longer and there�s always a real and present danger of a) falling asleep or b) realizing that you should have put the tumble drier on/phoned your mother/emptied the bins or some other non-fun thing that will involve putting sensible clothes on and generally NOT having any more sex.
Went to the workies for an hour or so last night and then succumbed to apathy and ordered some Chinese food to be delivered. Best plan: order food whilst still in the workies, finish drinks, walk home (briskly), pour another drink, get two forks out of drawer and Voila! The Chinese arrives! Perfect timing.
Once full of special chow mein and salt-and-pepper prawns and chicken kung po, it was off for a splendidly relaxing bath (well, as relaxing as a bath can be when the bath is meant for one small person and there�s two big people in it). Shagged in the spare room as L had changed the sheets on our bed and I didn�t want to make them all rumply by bouncing around in them and then went and got into our lovely smooth clean sheets and drifted off to Bo-Bo Land. Well, L did. Then he started snoring so I got out and went and slept in the spare room. On the rumpled sheets. In the wet patch.
Ah, fuck it. Knock yerselves out:
If you don�t like that then you�re dead.
Later
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