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That time I smelled a hand that touch Ricky Butler/Edgar Frog & brushed against Paddy off Emmerdale in the line for tea

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Some weeks ago my friend asked me if I was up for attending a horror film convention in a disused steel mill in Sheffield so we could bother Corey Feldman.



We then discovered, having bought our tickets, that it was an extra £35 for a photo opportunity with the man himself.

Fuck that!

After getting the hump about it briefly, we decided to go anyway and just try and get some photos when he did the Q&A session and just get Allie to photoshop us into it with him.

A last minute idea that we ought to put more effort into our wardrobe than my Frog Brothers hoodie resulted in this…  apologies to any of the neighbours who saw this parked outside this morning.


Bman did warn me that given the potential demographic of this type of event, we might attract the unwanted attentions of geeks.  I assured him that these guys would be too busy creaming their pants over horror movie props and the various other film franchise celebrities in attendance to be bothered about us.  I was only partly right…
…the coconut shy (shrunken head shy) man just let us go to town with the balls to throw to try and win a creepy toy.  No shrunken heads were knocked from their perches but he let us take a toy anyway.

Hostage child dolly… nice.



We wandered about a bit and had people jump out on us a lot. One of whom only didn’t get their mask punched off their face because they were clearly a young child.  After a further wander, we found the main hall which contained a plethora of horror related collectors tat to buy.
After some deliberation, I opted for a mini Audrey plant, although I was sorely tempted to get a hand-stitched voodoo doll with pins, or a replica mummified Rasputin’s penis.  One of those I can easily cobble together at home with some old material and my trusty sewing box. I’ll let you decide which one you think I mean.

Snaps to the man at who got our obscure League of Gentleman quote and joined in.

Best overheard conversation of the day was a father to his young daughter “What is it you’d like to buy?” Daughter replied “A pug in formaldehyde” To which I turned around and said “Well who doesn’t want one of those?”


Feed me Seymour!

I’ve been singing “Suddenly Seymour” all day since I bought this baby.


Touch it! Touch the mummified penis


Trussed up fetish Barbie.  Boob implant Barbie. Severed digits chess set.  Cabbage patch skeleton. Was also tempted by the skeletal mermaid of course but it was a bit big.



Some people had gone to a lot of trouble with the old costumes.  Possibly a little too much time on their hands but worth it for some selfies.





The scariest part of the day for me was when we’d asked some scary boiler suit zombie Michael Myers type for directions and he sent us the wrong way.  On the way back past him, my friend told him off for sending us the wrong way. We saw him again a bit later and she poked him on the shoulder and then ran off, leaving me to face him.  I ran away and he chased us down the corridor. We did the dumbest thing ever and ran into the ladies loos – thus leaving us trapped.  I feared he would be waiting outside for us, machete raised above his head.  We left it five minutes before sneaking out.  Luckily he had gone to find someone else to butcher so we were ok.
In fact, there was a worrying amount of weaponry there.  Annie Wilkes with her sledgehammer (“You dirty bird”). Machetes, axes, acetylene torches, nail guns, etc.  So many masked people.  They could have been anyone.  We could have been attacked at any point by a psychotic lunatic who had  ‘el-snappoed’ after mowing one too many lawns, and we would have just thought it was part of the show and filmed it or got a selfie.

Truth be told, we perhaps should have paid more attention to the rules (“Gav”) before we decided to stake out the adjacent (empty) queueing area to Corey in our persistent efforts to obtain the perfect free photo op.


To be fair, it doesn’t say you weren’t supposed to fall about laughing like morons and take a buttload of mostly useless photos.  Nor does it say that you’re not supposed to obstruct another ‘guests’ autograph line even though we were actually the only people in it.  Some poor fucker from American Horror Story amongst other things was sat there, pen in hand, with a grand total of nobody, waiting to get their merch signed.  No doubt cursing inside that he had been put “next to that gobby kid from the fucking Goonies” while two crazy bitches who make those mad old women waving union jacks outside Windsor Castle and creaming themselves over Prince Harry’s baby, look like absolutely normal pillars of the community.

At several points whilst signing other people’s things (an extra £35 to sign stuff) the man looked up – clearly distracted by our mirth and envious of the fact that here were two pals unperturbed by the fact that that they were making a holy show of themselves in a giant hall full of people in the close presence of a Hollywood celebrity.


See – he’s looking right at me – he wants IN on this fun


This is probably my favourite picture of the day and he’s not even in it,  If ever a photo summed up an average conversation between us two, then this is it.  It could only have been improved if cardigan man wasn’t in the way of Corey and his Smooth Criminal hat.


This is why my eyes are so creasy – too much laughter

I can’t even remember why we were in hysterics.  Possibly because Linda had just told me off for taking about eleventy blurry photos of nothing because she kept telling me off for moving the camera.


This is me saying “stop yelling at me” & Linda saying “I’m not!”

Another comedy moment, later on, was when I was looking for Pennywise the clown and Linda suddenly grabs me and says, “Dead ahead dead ahead”.  I’m looking about gormlessly for someone dressed as a clown and she’s hissing at me, “There! There! in front of you!”  I’m still staring about like a dolt going, “What? Where am I looking?” and eventually I realized she meant this…


This is not a waxwork


No, that isn’t Bman next to him

Linda, ever the opportunist, inveigled her way to him to ask if he would sign her pot (she recently knackered her arm falling over). He was very polite about it but said he wasn’t allowed to. But he did shake her (other) hand.


The hand that shook Corey’s

She said his hand was very soft “from all the drugs maybe? (allegedly)” assuming I suspect that Hollywood = must have indulged at some point.  But I’m not sure if she knows how drugs work. Unless the man was snorting lines of Nivea back in his misspent youth.  Hands that do narcotics are as soft as your face and all that.
I sniffed her hand afterwards, so I’ve smelled a hand that has touched a Frog Brother.

We then went and had a brew to calm down and compose ourselves before we went to the Q&A session.  I was stood behind Paddy from Emmerdale in the queue for tea. At least I think I was. I’ve tweeted him to ask if he was there but funnily enough, he hasn’t replied.


That day we ‘met’ Corey Feldman in Sheffield

I honestly haven’t laughed so much in ages for no real reason. I’m pretty sure when Corey clocked us doubled over in pleats, pissing our pants, he was put in mind of the good old days with his shits and giggles with his old pal Corey Haim.


Neither of these are Will Wheaton

He is more than welcome to join our little clique, as long as he knows his League from his Inside No.9 and his Fast Show from his Fonejacker. Fuck it! Paddy off Emmerdale can come out with us too, He looks like a man who enjoys a good craic.

So mostly my future now lies in creating horror and gore themed dolls and weird shit like mummified (ethically sourced) animals in ghoulish tableaus so I can have a stall there myself next year.





Feathers and bum cheeks

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This week has mostly taught a few lessons. Namely, not letting a sibling swing you around whilst dancing, in case they let go. That way, you won’t catch some air and then skid down the grass and graze up your bum cheeks.

This wasn’t me BTW. It was my eldest with no (possibly a bit) of truth to the rumours that it was a cider related injury.

This was at the Swingamajig festival we went to on Sunday in Birmingham. Not to be confused with the “Swingers festival” my sister told the cab driver we were going to. Or the “Jizzamaswing” festival my mum asked about.  Both entirely different types of group entertainment, I’m sure.

Youngest says about this picture – “I look like I’m having a stroke”.  “Yes”, I said. “And Jade looks like she’s asking if you can raise your arms and we can, but you can’t”.






Think FAST people.

Anyway, I digress.

Next lesson includes further cheek-based idiocy. This time my own. Not sure how much extra I should charge (or offer a discount for) for realising after an hour’s teaching tonight that my arse cheek was exposed thanks to a generous rip in my swimsuit. I only noticed when I’d just finished demonstrating face in kicking on my front. Rogue bare buttock exposed and peeping out above the water.


I like big butts & I cannot lie

“Enjoy the freedom” indeed!!

Thankfully I keep spare suit and shorts at work but this involved a comedy backwards clamber from the pool steps, hastily applied towel around the waist and a crablike scuttle to the office.Hopefully no children were traumatized for life. Unlike anyone reading this who now cannot unsee this picture.


On Sunday, my friend and I are going to stalk Corey Feldman in an old steel mill near Rotherham – what could possibly go wrong there?

True story.

No tan lines today – nice

Ciao Dudes Xx

Tickling joysticks in the dark with my mate

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It’s been a while, but last night my ghostbusting sidekick and I went on another investigation.  This time to an air museum and ex RAF base. We like the group we went with, but I shan’t name them.  Needless to say, they are much more scrupulous than the outfit of southern cunty hunters I experienced in Brighton. 

So, we’re in the welcome area and I’m looking around in hopeful anticipation of Kay Nambiar or Zak Bagan showing up to join us, because who wouldn’t like to be locked down in a tight cockpit area with these two?… but alas, not this time.



Why thank you. I believe I will

I think we were possibly two of the youngest there, again. certainly in maturity anyway.  Because I am a childish, immature horrible person with a twisted sense of humour, who gets the giggles at the most inopportune of times. Imagine the scene when who did arrive, but a seriously disabled man in a wheelchair.  Wrapped in a blanket and being rammed through the doorway by his carer and almost getting stuck in the door frame.  They had to use the other door (the outer door) which was wider, but meant the team had to move all the tables full of kit etc in order to wheel him in.  The two new arrivals then join the circle to take part in the requisite love and light protection bit, calling out to the spirits and asking them to light up the K2 etc.  “Can you make a noise for us please?” someone calls out. At which point our friend in the chair lets out some involuntary moans and groans. My mate grips my hand in the dark and I am eternally grateful that the lights are off so nobody can see us trying desperately not to laugh.  I’m not sure I can cope at this point.
People continue to call out, inviting spirits to join us.  Some of the K2s start to light up and our friend in the chair now lets out all sorts of guttural snorting sounds and I realise after almost choking whilst trying to bite my tongue, that he is laughing.  I immediately think he is fabulous and clearly a piss-taking cunt like myself.


I want to make it clear that I do think there are such things as ghosts and shadow people. I’ve seen them and heard them.  (And it hasn’t always been in my head, before you say it).  But I do think there is some kind of scientific explanation that, as shallow humans who only use a tiny percentage of our brains, we haven’t worked out yet.  I’m trying to obtain some kind of proof or explanation.  I don’t go to these things to take the piss.  I enjoy these visits, I find them fascinating, from a psychological and people-watching point of view and, if nothing else, it’s an excuse to rake about in the dark in places you wouldn’t usually be allowed in at that time of night.  I’m sure I have probably said so before.  Between us, we’ve probably debunked more odd happenings than anything else, but that’s because we’re scientists. I’ve got a Biology GCSE, a Psychology A-level and an internet obtained diploma in Demonolgy,  so it must be true.

giphy (1).gif



It didn’t take us long to find a room with dressing up clothes and some of those standees you can stick your face into like on a seaside pier.  It was time to let the seriousness of the investigation begin…




I like this one I photobombed and look like a minion.



My favourite part of the night was when we got to the main hangar before the rest of our team for the last part of the night and took the opportunity to pretend we were WW2 fighter pilots and fondle a joystick to see if we could pick up some psychometric vibrations – because who wouldn’t right?


My partner in crime thought it would be great to see how long we could hide, secreted aloft in our cosy cockpit perch before the rest of the team noticed we were missing.  I was more preoccupied with the pareidolia in the joysticks that made them look like cute little froggies or characters from Star Wars.  Also couldn’t resist this one because mentally I’m about 14.



I caved after about 10 minutes and announced our position from 5ft above the heads of our team when one of them went off to look for us.  The poor lad had already had a hard time earlier on when it had all gone a bit “Hello Cleveland” from ‘Spinal Tap, when he had tramped round and round the other hangar, looking for a light switch so we could do our vigil in the dark.

Luckily the Team Leader seems to like us, so after a sigh and “Oh it’s you two” whilst shining a torch at us, we were allowed to remain in our cockpit.  It was weird sitting up high and watching the others do their human pendulums and ouija boards.  Somebody’s grandad supposedly came through (or possibly the Big Lebowski, because he was apparently drinking white Russians in the afterlife). I’m not sure why grandad couldn’t have contacted them in their own home rather than trekking all the way to an aircraft hangar in South Yorkshire, but what do I know?  I was pretty knackered by this time.  Linda nodded off for a few moments at one point.  I thought I saw a few shadows in the darkness but we decided it could just have been our friend in the wheelchair doing an Andy from ‘Little Britain’ after getting bored being laid in his wheelchair staring into space. – “How did you get up there in that cockpit?” / “I fell!”  Or possibly it was just my failing eyesight.



No headless airmen or creepy children in gasmasks asking for their mummy (Doctor Who fans). Just a few shadows, bleeping tech (some of it debunked), the odd clunking noise and a sigh in the ear (possibly an actual spirit voicing despair at the pair of us) but otherwise nothing definitive.
Better than the ‘walking’ tables and profanity-laden ouija board we got in the police cells at Brighton though. Would rather have nothing but have good laugh than a lot of chicanery and faking.

Can only apologise to anyone who was using the sound enhancing headphones and could hear me and Linda whispering utter shite to one another in the cockpit of an old  Percival Provost.  Particularly the part where Linda (I forget why) started pretending to be Wacko Jacko and saying “Course I fucked those little boys, what did you all think? ” etc etc

Don’t ask! 

I’ve still to listen back to my EVP recordings (I need to listen to them from Brighton too actually) but I suspect it will be the usual 1 hour of dead air spattered with Muttleyesque sniggering and random whispered quotes from ‘The League of Gentlemen’, ‘Little Britain’ or ‘Fonejacker’.  I’m amazed they let us back.



Clearly, I’m probably going to hell for appearing to mock the deceased and the disabled.  But I think we know that my place downstairs was reserved a long time ago – early bird ticket style.  I’m not mocking. It just made for an even more amusing evening that I needed to write about even though I appreciate that you kind of had to be there.


It’s not the children you should be worrying about – it’s the parents

A cautionary tale & wrong type of memories

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On Saturday I ventured to Morridogs for ice lollies, lamb for Bman and some  burger baps. What was I thinking? The shelves were decimated. Of course they were. We were in the middle of one of the hottest Easter bank holiday weekends on record!  Thank you Iceland for having rather more stock!  

Both daughters out with respective friendship group, raking about in parks or woodland somewhere – as it should be at their age.

I got home and was set to go loaf in the rest of the afternoon sun when my phone rang. Daughter 2. Here we go, I thought. Wanting to know if Dad is home for a lift, or asking for a sleepover.  Instead I got a very tearful, “Mum I’m ok, but my friends have been hit by a car”

…and the world stops momentarily on its axis…

This is not what I meant when I encouraged her to go out 2 hours earlier and I’d said “Go make some memories”.

Where are you? Mummy is coming” I said, “but first I need to hang up baby girl & ring your friends’ mums”

I neither want to receive a phone call like that again, nor make any phone calls like that again.


Kids, when your mother seems like a ‘smother’ and constantly tells you to be careful, or wants to know where you are, or says “mind the roads”. This. Is. Why.

I’d like to big-up to everyone who stopped to help. To anyone who gave first-aid before the paramedics arrived, to anyone who comforted my traumatized and hysterical daughter at the roadside. Thank you so much.  💜

She won’t be able to unsee what she saw.  I saw them as they arrived at LGI, having managed, thanks to my fabulous friend, to get there before them, and I don’t want to ever see that again.

But, thanks to amazing good fortune, considering they were hit at some speed (driver did stop BTW, and my daughter says she wishes she could say sorry for upsetting their day) and our fantastic NHS, both girls will make full recoveries. We are all amazed by this. Possibly a few scars, but astoundingly, both are now home with some injuries, but nothing life changing. They are clearly meant for great things.

🙂 Xx

Small news compared to the atrocities that went on in Sri Lanka on Sunday I know, but way too close for comfort for me. Too many  ‘what ifs’.

So hug your loved ones close. If you love somebody, let them know.

What’s that saying? You don’t only live once, you only die once, you live every day – or something like that.  Be good, be kind, love, laugh, Do stuff, enjoy, and all that. You just never know when your number could be up or you make a simple decision that alters the course of your life.  My daughter stepped back just as her friends stepped forward. That’s all it takes to change your day, your life even.

Stay safe MoFos Xx

I went to London & nobody called me a cunt

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So last week I went to Windsor with my Mother in Law for a Maundy Thursday date with The Queen.  True story.  She chose me, as the least embarrassing of her children and daughters-in-law (who’d have thought it?) to accompany her to receive maundy money.

I was quite excited, as I do like the Royal Family.  Our little island may be a bit of a global laughing stock politically, at the moment but if we didn’t have the Royals and weird shit like Stonehenge and traditions like rolling cheese down a hill or coal carrying races, then, let’s face it, no fucker come visit from abroad and spend their money.  So if you’re one of those people who bang on about wanting St George’s Day to be a public holiday and having the right to fly an England flag in your yard without being seen as a football hoolie or a racist, you can’t also bang on about the Royal Family being a waste of public money.  To be British means you have a Royal Family. End of. They’re part of the deal man.


Anyway, I digress… Somehow I managed to pass whatever security checks the palace do on Maundy Money recipient’s companions and I had my invitation.


More importantly, I had the Ruby Shoo heels and matching clutch.  The beauty of which would hopefully detract from the £13 Primark frock and the fact that I had opted not to wear a hat.


Didn’t need a coat in the end


I’m not a religious person, but St George’s Chapel was a beautiful building. So glorious inside.  Made all the more special by the old fashioned pomp, procession and fanfare that we do really well in this country whenever there’s anything royal occurring.

You weren’t meant to use your mobile but I managed to sneak a couple of pics before Her Maj and Eugenie arrived.  I didn’t dare, once she’d arrived, in case I was tackled to the ground by the Military Knights of Windsor or a Yeoman of the Guard then dragged off to the Tower of London.




During all this, Her Maj walked around the chapel aisles in what seemed like a random fashion. Kind of like the way I wander aimlessly around Lidl or Morrisons (much to Bman’s irritation). She handed out a red and a white leather pouch containing the maundy money to each recipient.  MiL was chosen to receive it this year for Christian services to the church and community.  So I am unlikely ever to repeat the experience unless a different relative over 70 with outstanding Christian proclivities gets chosen and asks me to accompany them!  #notlikely


The Queen was a vision in canary yellow and a lot smaller than I had realised.  For a 93-year-old, she looked fabulous and did a sterling job of plodding around the chapel.  If it had been a case of all the olds having to go up to her to get their money, we could well still be there now!  With the minimum age to be a recipient as 70 years old and many of the recipients looking way older than that, I felt positively youthful in that chapel. 

There was a rousing rendition of ‘God Save The Queen’ before Her Maj left to kick off her good shoes and gloves and put her housecoat & slippers back on and fire up a Bombay Bad Boy pot noodle at Windsor Castle.  We had a drinks and canapes reception at Windsor Castle too, but not with Her Maj unfortunately as I had initially been led to believe.


To be fair, she’d have been swamped by olds if she had been in attendance.  The resident Knights made up for it by entertaining us no end.  Not purposely, like court jesters or anything. But one, in particular, let’s call him Sir Chatsalot, I could have listened to all night.  He was like something off ‘The Fast Show’ and we loved him!


Managed to meet up with other royalty whilst on this royal religious mission and saw my old mucker from Bish, who was a superstar and top bag-wrangler and I can’t wait to see her again properly in August.

Before we knew it, the tiny sandwiches on silver platters were depleted and our royal date was over.  We headed back home via London Town, where I resisted the desire to get any random southern geezer to call me a “FACKIN’ CANT” because honestly – who doesn’t love that?  I’m a northerner and no mistake but I do love the way those southern shandy drinkers say my favourite C word.  Makes me go all unnecessary.


Meanwhile, my MiL is delighted with the (only slightly doctored) pictures I whatsapped to her of our visit.



So if any tourists were rubbernecking (and there were many). We are sure to be on several holiday snaps.  I did a royal wave at a fair few of them.  They had no clue who we were. I could have been a random distant countess of somewhereorother for all they knew.

I’ll honestly never get to do anything like that again.  By 8pm I was back down to earth with a bump. Back in Sadford with no silver platter bearing, white-gloved flunkies to cater to my whims.  No Knights to entertain me other than my Game of Thrones, Ser Davos Seaworth of the sigil of the onion, lookylikey husband.

BTW snaps to me for not laddering my tights or getting my dress tucked into them at the reception or anything.  Pretty sure I probably deserve an MBE or something for that!

Ciao Ciao and God Save the Queen MoFos! Xx


This is a local post for local people

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I appear to be having some kind of midlife crikey lately where, despite looking my age, I actually seem to be mentally regressing.  19 on the inside.  69 (dude!!) on the outside. And it’s panicking me a bit. I’ll be buying rollerboots next and trying to get off with 26 year olds.

Look at those crinkly eyes!  Those pores!
I think I might have peaked at 34.  Although am strangely happier with my body now at 47 than I ever have before. Pity no bugger wants to see it though.



WTF is happening here? Laughing too much & gozzy-eyed squinting have taken their toll


To distract myself from inevitable decrepitude and the fact that it’s only going to get worse if I turn into one of those botoxed. boob-lifted, peroxide Patsy Stone types, I chose today to check out a local meeting (for local people).


I don’t want to get old. I’m still only mentally about 20

I follow our local area’s FB group page to see what’s what in the hood – who’s been robbed lately or had their knickers stolen off the line – that type of thing.  It’s recently gone a bit westside and has been more entertaining than the Brexit saga, all because someone has erected a chain across a snicket/ginnel/alley/twitchell/call it what you will, in order to deter rogue quad bike riders and teenage drug dealers.  This has caused outrage and much chuntering on FB. I have been following the saga on the community page with a mix of neighbourly interest, amusement, and frustration at some of the questionable spelling.

With nothing better to do with my Monday other than bemoan my encroaching slide into the domain of the desperate old woman, I decided to wander down to the local meeting for local people, which had been arranged by our local councillor and to be held, oddly, at the site of the disputed chain. I was there in a people-watching capacity only, as I couldn’t give a shit if someone has the right or not to try to stop people riding dirt bikes and quads down their back alley or dealing drugs next to their back yard.  I was more interested in who else rocked up and whether the people who had been so vocal online were there in person.


What’s all this shouting? We’ll have no trouble here!


I’d wanted to arrive on a quad, through the disputed public right of way, whilst smoking a massive spliff, just out of badness and because I’m a piss-taking, trouble causing cunt, but couldn’t obtain the necessaries at such short notice, so I just walked round instead.

There were no pitchforks or flaming torches but it was fairly depressing.  Despite the local councillor and the dude from the council who deals with public rights of way disputes and such, reminding the small crowd to listen and not argue over the top of one another, that is of course, what happened.  Everyone had an opinion. It was the usual Top Trumps local edition of who has lived around here the longest like that’s a badge of honour rather than a poor life choice or a rut you are now stuck in.
The poor woman who was responsible for the drama spoke up to explain herself and I couldn’t tell you half of what she said because guess what? people were talking over her to each other and not listening.  Too busy chuntering and grumbling about losing their short cut.

I was asked twice whether or not I even lived on the street. I said no I didn’t, I lived around the corner and was there purely in the interest of sociology and psychology and that thus far I had not been disappointed. I did speak up when a couple of people were a bit mean after the lady had gone back inside her house.  But of course they were – people are mean – it’s human nature, unfortunately.


Several people had even arrived in vehicles, which led me to think about how local they actually were if it had warranted a drive but that…like the chain fence, is none of my business.



Meanwhile, the Bman is back from his weekender in Manc (which was initially only an evening), so I no longer have the bed to myself.  If he snores I may have to adopt this approach. We’ve tried everything else.  Snore pillows, nasal strips, mouth guards, punching him in the ribs.

It could be a win-win situation for me.



Who will sit with me in the dark like the Mad Hatter?

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With no discernible reasoning and being happier in my life than I have in years, I have felt myself sliding towards the rabbit hole the last few days.  For the first time in months I had to take a couple of my beta blockers last week. (I told you didn’t I that it never goes away).


My mind has been racing with loony thoughts and tick-tock tick-tocking back and forth between feeling absolutely fine, to being awake late at night or in the wee small hours with a head full of utter rubbish. Crazy half dreams and visions. Thoughts that made no sense whatsoever, interlaced with rational thoughts and worries (but nothing you could deal with at 3am).


I have been distracting myself with Facebook, AKA the thief of time and the devil’s own tool.  Not helpful truth be told. I should bomb the fucker off again for a mental cleanse but I need it for the Koolkids page, thus making it far too easy to get sucked into the newsfeed. Like this, comment on that, post the other. Must have recognition. Must spout views. Must post flattering photo so everyone knows how fabulous we are even though usually, we look like homeless elderly tramps. Must have instant gratification of a thumbs up or a smiley. Hello, hello, I’m here. (Where are you?) I’m here (Where are you? )*

This week I am distracting myself by dogsitting my friend’s pug. What an odd looking ugly  little fucker he is, bless him.  He is currently on time-out in his bed for being too giddy and jumping from couch to couch laughing at me and he is now snoring like Bman whilst asleep sat up.  The cats are not impressed with his presence but they’ll have to get used to it until next week.

Meanwhile I will take my life one day at a time and try not to overthink things, overeat, drink too much, or chew my nails down to the quick. I must remember that life is good (despite the Brexit balls-up) and that I am loved and not a complete waste of space or air. No, I won’t change the world but that’s okay. As long as I do alright in my world then that’ll do.

*one for the Pulp fans there