Thursday, 23 March 2017

My Brain Hurts A Lot

I just did something very silly. 

I wasted all my writing opportunities over the last few days in reading my old blog posts instead.  From the beginning. 

Interesting in terms of them being a diary of those years, but sad in as much as I learned in harsh black and white just how tedious I am.

I started this blog by accident - just had a primal urge to grunt a comment on someone else's blog one time and had to create a bloggy identity to do so, then felt obliged to spew forth regular bucketfuls of my fetid innards.  I eventually stopped due to technical glitches and an even more violent urge to spew my festerings into chapteresque form.  Yep - The Book.

Nearly finished it too.

But about a month ago a friend started a blog and I wanted to read it.  It was on another digital 'thing' and in order to get to read it I found myself having to create a new bloggy identity on that.  I now feel obliged to spew again. 

Now, I wondered if I could sculpt a whole new character for myself on that site.  I could be all sensitive and nice.  Or deep.  (Stop laughing.)

Then I had a notion that Madame Smokingun could leave acerbic comments on the nice me's posts.  And nice me could leave sweet dappies on MSG's, for her to lacerate.  This could be a whole new project.  I am smiling.  Like I do when I think up stoopid new projects to distract me from finishing something.

It's not that I don't WANT to finish projects - I don't have any umbilical psychological hang ups there - it's just that my brain skips off somewhere else before I know it and I am very easily led.  And oops there goes another risk of achievement and satisfaction with myself.

It's probably too technically complicated to keep up this digital multi-personality order.  I'll put this snake-eating-its-own-tail idea to the back of my skull for a few months to mature.  (Like there's any hope of maturity in my head... )

And get back to The Book.

But I may just pop back in again soon and keep my future nosey self up to date with the gap years.  Reel off all our main punctuations of the last few years.  And maybe even keep it going again so that when my dementia really gets ripe, I can look at a listy something and think... who's shoes have I just weed in?

It's a plan.

Sunday, 5 March 2017

Am I Still Me?

Changing devices.  Or changing vices?

Identifying myself over and over again.

And again.

Driving myself nuts.  And everyone around me. 

Wish there was a simpler way of telling my mirror that I'm ME.  Still me.

Who's the tiredest in the land?

Fucking ME.

ZZzzzzz...   Still fucking me.

But here I am again.  Reinstalled Blogger on my new (acquired from silly old woman who shouldn't have bought it in the first place) tablet and found I didn't exist in my current state.  Had to find an old me.

Slightly worried about channelling this old me.  Could be trouble.

Well let's see.

I might revisit this old me a little more often and tap into some dangerous history.  I might learn sumfink.

Or I might end up smashing another device against a wall. 

I don't have the greatest relationship with Samsung devices.  This will be my third attempt. 

But it's free!!!

And that's wot my friend Mrs Wears-Her-Biscuit-On-Her-Sleeve would call bargainous.

I need to disable this spelchek.  I do not like being told wot to do.

One day I will return all proper like.  But for now I just wanted to see if I really did exist, albeit in a former self kind of way.

Yes I'll be back.  When I finish the yoo-know-wot.  I'm still plodding away.  Got over fourteen chapters now.

One day...

Bet you can't wait eh?

Saturday, 20 September 2014

Jamming in the Name of the Lord

Lord Voldemort that is.  I do try to be perky and keep on the gingham side of life but I am inevitably dragged back into the folds of dark crushed velvet.  With tassels.  And skull beads.  I thought the new house would keep me from the demons' grasp - all that potential for a fresh start.  All that hope and clean surfaces...  

It started well.  The hell of moving house again for the third time in as many years was already being shoved into the Do Not Open file in my head.  We got gas instead of oil.  We got double glazing.  We got somewhere for the basketball hoop.  And for the first time in nine years - we got a walk-to-able bus stop.  All this and no more stairs.  No need to worry about my retirement bungalow - I'm already in it.  I have angels singing in my ears.  And they sound like The Supremes.

I am Madame Bakeybuns.  Homemaker, chummy mum and smiley neighbour.  Oh yes.


You see, I got all enthusiastic about making jam - cheery floral pinnyesque activity if ever there was.  But not in my kitchen.  I had been tempted by the fruits of my new garden and lured into the Devil's trap.  An abundance of damsons dripping onto the football's domain had me at hello.  Yet I averted my gaze, resisted, bound by the weight of boxes to unload and innumerable grouping allen keys to categorise, but before I fully understood what lay ahead, there, poised like Margot Fonteyn, was my deluded little plump self atop a wobbly step ladder with a foolishly large mixing bowl gathering in the harvest.  Dear gods...  I can just imagine the wholesome bloom of Laura Ingalls Wilder on my cheeks.  Roving Blade and I even spread out the bounty on the grass to let all the wee spiders and bugs escape.  Just darling.

That was Friday evening.  Feckless Friday.  Put the bugless bowl on the dining table and wandered off.  Got distracted.  Got late.  Got the morning to do it - it'll be fiiiiine...

Still-Keen-but-Strapped-for-Time Saturday.  No problem.  My good 93-jars-so-far-this-year jam-making buddy had filled my head with dizzying delights of not stoning those teeny ol' damsons but simply straining them after cooking so I hurled 'em in me biggest pan and dreamt of luscious purpley goo. I'm so Mumsy I should write a blog.  Roving Blade was busy being all Dadsy putting in a cat flap in the hardest wood door ever known to man... and woman, (when he got fed up), and child, (when I got nowhere), and another child.. and another... I think even the cats had a go out of embarrassment. Still retaining my sunshine state in between futile sawing and holding things still while males drilled and screwed, I picked rosehips.  I may have hummed...  Detached my left thumbnail deseeding half the bastards before remembering I was bound for the carefree ways of the muslin strainer.  One nonchalant plop and I skipped off to look for the muslin. I've got tons of this stuff.  Tons of it.  Not a bit.  No matter I'll use a sieve and a j-cloth, like Madame 93-Jars does.  Except my sieve is small, hookless and just plain shite.  My j-like-cloths don't appear to have holes either.  'I AM READY!' I just need to wash, pack, get dressed, find shoes, pack for the boys, feed the cats, find the cats, post 'em through the flap a few times, feed Snake Boy, run through the door-locking/cat-feeding/cat-posting/microwaving (not cat related) instructions again, lecture Minx about buses and alcohol and mad money for an escape cab.. 'Of course I'm not still fucking about with jam!..'  Fucking shoes...  Which shoes?..  All of them.  Let's go.

Ooh a whole evening away.  Just the two of us.  A party.  A hotel.  Complimentary biscuits....  Which offspring shall we worry about first?  The one we've abandoned in the house alone, the one who's got on a bus and is staying over at some stranger's party, the one with the funny bottom billeted with Nanny or the shouty sweary smaller one who Nanny might just evict?  I should have put the sugar in the gloop.  I hope it'll wash off the pan ok.  I meant to put the sugar in.  If I'd stoned them first I'd have put the sugar in.  'Of COURSE I'm ready.'  Just got to do me lippy and find shoes.  Shoes...

Seriously-Sodding-Around-Sunday.  Text Snake Boy to get up.  Criminally speedy hotel breakfast.  Find the friends' house.  Confess we hadn't bought him a birthday present.  Mumbled about the jam taking longer than planned.  Anxious texts to Snake Boy's football coach - how's it going?  Only his second league game with this new team - scored four last week, how can he follow that?  The answer - by scoring five.  Roving Blade's chest puffs up another few inches.  Pick-ups, thank yous, blow-by-blows, half-cooked pizza pile up, a fast turnaround, proper bloody bovver boots back on (thank fuck), further boy abandonments and a still-alive Minx and I are clapping away at the ice gala (that she should be in but for her gucky toes and a heady social summer).  Whoop whoop - let's get home - the damsons are in distress. I'm sorry.  It just popped out.  Yes at last - fun and frolics dun ticked - back to the eternal slotted spooning and hand-squeezy stoning saga.  I could feel my shoulders stiffening, my spine fusing, my neck petrifying... whilst seeing my hands turn from red to purple to black.  I'm definitely ditching any stoopid ideas about joining the WI now.  They must be mad bitches.   At least I got to chuck in the fucking sugar.   Shame I'd forgotten to weigh the goop.  Chuck in a bit more sugar to make sure.  Only got muscovado - fuck it.  Squeeze in some lime juice for extra pectin.  And a bit more sugar...  Oh for for fucks sakes go to bloody bed.

Murderous Monday.  But by the dimming light I finally get to turn up the heat.  Get to herd the viscious mass into jars.  Halleflappingluyah!  Need more jars.  Lidless from the recycling bin.  Exploding jars.  For fucks sake let the torture end...

Talk-to-the-Hand Tuesday.  I'm busy.  You there, you sticky pots, you butter-wouldn't-melt sticky bastard pots - you can just sit there and think about what you've done.

Thrombosis Thursday.  How many different fabrics do you need for these damned lids? Just how long does it take to stick bloody labels on bloody jars?  How many lightbulbs does it take to think up a stoopid name for this glop?  Dambuster Jam?  Jambuster Damn.  Dammit Jammit... As ever, The Silent Assasin leaves his mark, undetected by the human eye.  Little Rock Godling, as he was once known, decided to help out.  

I now have ten jars of Bum In Face awaiting the new neighbours' pleasure.

This doesn't seem to happen on The Great British Bake Off.  They knock up a nifty blob of jam for a signature sponge in about ten minutes.  


Wednesday, 19 March 2014

Dare I?

Not sure.  Bit scared.

May come back later...

Tuesday, 25 June 2013


Yes ignore that last spew.  Somehow during the spewaging, the old inconsequential spew slipped back into it's previous spew bucket. 

So glad I made the most of a bright spring morning...


I G N O R E 

Queen Glitch...

Thought I'd have a quick peek at Blogger to see if it had decided to behave in my absence.  It most certainly had not.  But as I'd planned to do lots of writing today, I wondered if a quick flick thro' a couple of old posts might just spur me on.  Either to make me think 'it's ok I CAN do this' (unlikely) or to be so shamed by my drivel that I'd resolve to improve, and set about doing so (a virtuous ambition don't you agree?)  So I just tapped on a couple of random ex-splats.  Noticed some typos.  Ignored them.  Next splat - the urge to correct over-took me so I hit the Edit button.  Fool.  Removed the offending error.  Fool.  Was faced with Save Draft or Publish.  Hit Publish.  That's what I used to do wernnit??  FOOL.  Suddenly I was back on the battleground of Signing In.  My password has lost it's power.  My choices are displayed in a muted 'you can look but you can't touch' tease.  I press everything in the end but nothing works except 'Cancel'.  My corrected old post disappears.  Now it wasn't a great work, but it's a link in a chain that has become more precious with age.  It's the rarity value.  My bloggy offerings are but a paltry tinkle of coppers due to a broken heart - Blogger dumped me and I never got over it - (oh it lets me spew still but not defend myself afterwards - comments still denied) - so I recoiled and took myself out of the market.  But like a soppy black&white heroine I pulled my old love letters out from under the bed to torture myself - and dropped one down the floorboards....

Oh the anguish!  I have no idea why I felt so bereft, especially as I had just read it and knew it was wholly inconsequential, but it's the principle goldarnit!  And gods knows I have so few of those left.  I've just been electronically erased.  Outraged by technology again.  Feel thick now.

Can't even remember what it was called....

I give up fighting against the fight.  Go back to the front line hands raised clutching a tattered white hankie and look!  There the bastard is.  Re-published as if it's a new bloody idea.  

I hate this 'I Know Best' digital nazism.  I can't even retain my own thoughts in the order I thought them. I might just stop thinking altogether.  That'll fix Them.  

Anyway - just ignore.  Did you know that on the Self-Service tills in B&Q there is an Ignore button that the staff can press when the posh voice goes AWOL?  I want an Ignore button installed in my head.  When the shit starts to waft my way - click.  Ignore.

It's the only sensible path.  Self-improvement has shown itself to be a worthless ambition after all.  In trying to polish-up my previous incarnation, I merely highlighted my lacking.  So I'm backing away into the dark bushes once more to watch the pretty lights from my lowly hovel.  Pretend you never saw me.


.  .  i g n o r e  .  .  .  .  .

Sunday, 21 April 2013

The Lonliness of the Long Distance Blogger

Keeping the far-flung Roving Blade company with stories is the brief. Brain Department says 'eeek!' What can I pretend I've been doing with my face-less bra-less hairbrush-less day? Can't confess that... MadameSmokinGun would not leave the house without eyebrows, sculpting or mop restraint. Thing is... Madame did not leave the house. Only as far as the washing line. Madame took the unusual opportunity of a Sunday without football, play rehearsals or Aged P-visiting to stay in what she had worn to bed and just avoid mirrors. Thuglet was too snotty to take out but well enough to ignore. The perfect set-up for anti-social slobbing sans guilt. And with no Roving Blade to pour scorn, the Scene of the Dance Crime was full blast and fluid. Boy things were electronically entertained beyond the radio-ruled Scene's threshhold. Their noise dismissed by a twist of my own cheeky little volume knob. Minxie-Pops appeared sporadically to feed, join in the dance crimes and change my phone's wallpaper to creepy images of sloths. (Funny the teenage interest in her wild counterpart.) The most taxing activity was disagreeing over the pronunciation of sloth. I know I'm right but have the calm maturity to just pull a 'derrr' face instead of argue. And carry on twerking. A 40-something booty-grinder will always but ALWAYS win any argument with a disturbed teenage daughter. Just have to brace oneself when switching one's mobile. A sloth in a box this time.

Back to thinking how to describe my day to my loved one peeking in from foreign shores. Back to the bosom of The Blog. I had convinced myself that my blog site problems were a gift from The Universe to stop me from directing my energy towards fun and frolics and make me concentrate on The Infamous and Still Unwritten Book. Yeah...I haven't been overly successful on the word-count front but I HAVE started. (That means diddly - I started it about 10 years ago... ) What I mean is I have downloaded an app on my new posh phone and have been rabbiting on that - all over the house at odd opportunities - instead of waiting my turn on the big pooter. Then I email them to myself and feel all clever. ....Except on the days when I haven't. Then I feel worthless and shamed. Today was a non-writey-emaily day so receiving a request for a blog tale split me in two. Am I misdirecting or am I boosting my achieveless little soul with a wee bloggy pick-me-up? Just a drop to warm the cockles eh?

So what tales to tell? Ummm.... unfortunately, despite the huge spaces between posts, I am still the same lame dame. I switch on machines that hum or whirr. I squidge-clear plate-sized spaces on counters and coffee tables. I squirt things that stink with chemicals. I sigh with over-work and check Facebook. I am an inspiration to my doting children....

And yet this evening did I not get up-to-date with my Home Ed scrapbooks? Surely a podium position? It's astounding what a moving date can spur. The last time I was up-to-date was the last time we moved house. The thought that Kent County Council might discover our existence and pay us an inspection does also haunt the cobwebbed tomb of my skull. East Sussex have been delightfully uninterested in us. My scrapbooks are so unwieldy and frightening I would hope they'd still the clipboard scratching. Preparation preparation preparation....

I haven't started packing. It's not for the want of boxes, it's the skip I'm looking forward to. Almost everything I lay my eyes on has been mentally filed there already. Apart from the scrapbooks. I peered into my wardrobe thinking I could start clearing out but didn't dare as I realised I'd not stop til it was all bin-bagged. I feel the same about the boys' room. Moving Day may be a month away but is there really any point in changing the sheets? It'll seem so much the nicer in the next place... I've got those vaseline-smeared visions - a new house with floors and walls you can SEE.... A clear table.... Clean made beds.... Sparkling kitchen.... Fragrant bathroom.... Let me dream.... It was only 2 years ago I dreamed this dream. Then we moved in. This time baby I'll beeeee bulleeeeeet-proof. No crap allowed. Apart from me. Aagh I've been shot!

Today was not the day tho'. Today was for throwing shapes, much tea and sellotape over-load. And a little nip of a blog.

Tomorrow will be back to hitting targets - multisports, extra football, the museum, chips in the park and everlasting lurking at the theatre. Interspersed with more football and dazed knitting. I'll turn off the engine tomorrow night and collapse onto the steering wheel. So today was a sweet oasis of flop. Looking at it like that I don't feel so lazy. I really should have had a shower tho'.... target number one for tomorrow then. As for rounding off my fat-arsed evening, I'm off to my crumpled minging bed to sleep, perchance to dribble.....