So, I’ve been back in the ghetto over 48 hours now and am already regretting not face-planting myself into a chilly reservoir somewhere in Northampton. Have I always been this boring? (Bman probably yells YES from downstairs). I like to think it more as ‘quietly reserved’ though. Why am I so self-conscious? Has it always been so? (Am pretty sure that recreational-pharmaceutical induced moments of euphoric abandon don’t count.)
I do tend to err on the side of caution admittedly. (To be fair, the last time I lived dangerously, without dubious enhancements, I lost my favourite coat, got dropped off in a cab at the wrong house & ultimately lost several friends and a lot of dignity).
It was a very long time ago.
However, in the spirit of 40+ living recklessly, I allowed my 11 year old to finally get a hamster and keep it in her room.
I know. Check me. Like woah, slow down there lady!
She’s been pestering us for one for ages, even relenting to get degus instead, as they can be kept outside. We did say she could have one when we move house, but as that seems to be a mere pipe dream, we’ve caved and it arrived on Thursday.
She calls it ‘Ash’. It’s a male albino Russian dwarf hamster. I think Igor, Boris or Ivan Tokillu would make a better name.
See how his red eyes glow as he plots like a miniature Bond villain. Doubtless rubbing his freakishly tiny hands together as he makes his plans to take over the world.
I have allowed a minion of Satan to live on my daughter’s bedside cabinet. Does that make me a badass or a dumbass? I think I know the answer.
Meanwhile. Everything looks so much better when the sun is out. I say everything… looking around town at the vest-clad-tatts-on-tits posse, then perhaps not.
I decided to make the most of the summer while it lasts, by tickling about in the garden and tidying up my plants yesterday. An unkempt backyard is a friend to no-one after all. I then busted out the lateral thigh trainer and weighted hula hoop in the usual annual attempt to become ‘beach ready’ (for a beach I will undoubtedly never get to.) Don’t think scrabbling around for fossils at Boggle Hole with my old pal Gene Genie, counts as strutting our buffed bouncy bits on the beach. (FYI Gene, I saw someone earlier this week who… wait for it… “doesn’t believe in dinosaurs”. I shit you not!)
My alfresco exercise regime was rudely interrupted by the usual sounds of a summer day in the projects. Underage bellends on dirt bikes, razzing around the streets with shirts off and the inevitable Five:O Airshow – because apparently we do actually live in Crenshaw.
Like clockwork, The sun comes out & Officer Dibble takes to the air. Does my head in. Either catch some criminals or fuck off out of my yard. I’m trying to catch some rays and listen to Radio 6 here buddy.