Unparalled special status

How spazzy can I get? I've passed all the beginner classes and am now on a whole new level. Hang on - just had to retrieve my slipper that boinged off and got stuck under a chair a good 5 feet away in the dark. Where was I? Oh.

Back in business now I've picked the fluff-strands from my biggest tasseliest jumper out from between the keys. Getting good at picking these bits out of things. Lots of practice. I wouldn't normally bother but they look like pubes a bit. If you had black pubes. Which none of us do. Which just makes it worse. But it's my favourite jumper at the moment so worth the hassle. Where was I? Uh.

I'm supposed to be in bed but have dedicated my evening to catching up on some bloggy stuff instead. Bad idea to catch up with Grit. It's now morning. But I feel calmer in meself that I'm up-to-date with My People. Some of them. Will catch up with meself diary-wise tomorrow. The Bad Book has been neglected due to spazziness of the Advent Fairy kind. Got up-to-date - and even ahead of the game - with all that utter stoopidity last night. No more pins, ping-y gold thread or finger-fucking wire button loops. Just slide off pre-selected flag with accompaning button and serve chilled. Also have spare re-wired buttons to accommodate the daily flinging of personal button down the side of the bleedin' chairs by Ungrateful Small Bastards (official term). Not getting cross at all. Smile and slap pre-mentioned USBs round head 'by accident' with wrapping paper inside bit. Feeeels gooooooooood...... Eric Sykes is always with us in spirit.

But just how spazzy would one be to have already designed next year's mind-fuck December-blatter? Really really spazzy. And it's the third design this month. I think Father Xmas's robin has been spiking my mince pies with Stepford sap.

But it's pale in comp with my new injuries. All self-inflicted. Well - I know you're dying to ask........ Last Sunday (which was supposed to be cancelled but I forgot and got out of bed by mistake) - Thuglet twice flung his full weight onto my neck while I was in edge-of-chair-looking-at-the-telly-like-I'm-gonna-stand-up-soon-like-a-grownup-who-doesn't-sit-down-watching-telly stance which causes a whiplash-type sensation just like um whiplash. Shooting pain both times and lots of shouting with my PROPER cross face. I was so convinced that I was gonna wake up like Ann Widecombe (helped by a second night on the settee downstairs to keep Little Rock Vom-Monster company) that I wedged a hot water bottle down the back of my neck and stayed all warm and propped up til morning. Hooray - I can move my neck I thought as I stealthily hooked Thuglet's pain au choc towards my wakey-uppy coffee cup. Feels a bit scratchy tho'. Still felt a bit sore a couple of hours later. ' 'Ere babe - have I got a diggy-in mark where my neck-chain clasp was pressed against the hot water bottle? Can you have a look?' 'Fuck! What the fuck have you done?! You've got a blister the size of a £2 coin! Didn't you feel the burning you numptie?' 'Oh' The nice hot water bottle must have waited for me to fall asleep and then heat up the neck-chain clasp. Nice. Dr Roving Blade held his breath and burst it for me today. Felt the pus snake all the way down my back. Held off on having a shower for another couple of hours tho'. Low on oil in our tanker we are. Next approximate delivery date could be January 14th. Not stripping off 'til ration evening heating on. But what's another blister to me. It can have martinis with my thumb blisters. Created by shovelling snow with a heavy spade that's got no handle. And then deciding that shovelling snow into a washing-up bowl and then dumping out the way is more efficient. And then discovering that washing-up bowlfuls of snow make great igloo-inspiring ice blocks. And then laying the foundations of the greatest igloo ever built, big enough for actual human habitation. And then carrying on despite the tugging pain in my right forearm. Which by today now has a bulbous lump on it all squishy and agonising. But what's another lump? It can choose curtains with the bump on my head from forgetting I live in a dwarf cave after five and a half years.

But the oozing lip-volcano has cleared up now. And fish-scale gloop has stopped emanating from certain parts after a nice foreign man stuck sticks of silver nitrate up there last week. (I'm mouthing this like Les Dawson - and Miranda.... What? Don't you ever watch telly?) And the scab-mark of Zorro is fading a bit from my knee. And my singed taste buds have recovered from that carrot debacle the other day. And I'm sure the rest of my cuticle rips will have healed up a bit by Xmas lunchtime. And those gnat bite prints between my eyebrows are definitely less noticeable now.

In fact I feel a song coming on........

Tonight we resurrected the Spunk Lyric Game for Xmas songs. Not as cracker-ing as one might hope but it put a sparkle in my bloodshot eye. How about:

Little Spunky, Santa Claus is coming to spunk, Deck the halls with boughs of spunk, Oh spunk all you faithful (not much different to the original), Oh cum all you spunkful?, Rudolph the spunk-nosed reindeer, Let it spunk, let it spunk..., Last Xmas I gave you my spunk, I'm dreaming of a white spunk, Frosty the spunkman, I spunked Mummy kissing Santa Claus, In the bleak mid-spunk ........ oh it's just so childish! But they do say Xmas is for the children. Oh I've just lost me bloody slipper again.....

One last song to send me off to bed then....


* * Was Xmas eve babe ........ in the spunk tank ...... * *


Sing along now......

Oh the weather outside is frightful.........

Friday

Six hours to get from 30 minutes away back home. No we're not going to buy a drink or any lunch - we have half a titchy bottle left and a packet of Twiglets. Get in the car. We'll be home in no time.......

Tap tap tap - Excuse me but the lady behind you asked me to tell you that one of your back wheels has frozen up and doesn't go round when you move forwards. Just sort of smokes.

Are you eating something? I can see him chewing! He's eating something! Last night's burger that you left in the car? Eugh.....


Saturday

In the bowl darling - try to grab the bowl in time in future when you think you're going to hurl.

In the bowl! Not on me!! In the bowl!!!


Sunday

Cancelled

TV laptop bells-a-ringing

Ding dong merrily on high...

Last night was cabaret night. And Mr GPants and I were stepping out.

Just being in the car was exciting enough. Heading into the bright lights in our finery, high on heady 'fumes and mighty in crippling footsqueezers we wondered what was in store. The last time Mr GPs had seen a cabaret it involved glove puppets in Morocco apparently. Hand actions supplied. Yeah.... Anyway, back to the now... We hoped for dancing girls. Mr GPs hoped for no trannies. I hoped for plenty.

We got the girls. We got a can-can. Not as saucy as the waitresses but still - nice knickers.

We got a little bald chap in a nice tank top spinning plates. Took him about 45 minutes to set up for a 2 minute set. And then another 45 minutes to pack it all up again. He must love his job.

And yes we got a big glam singing trannie with the most astounding silver glittery shoes. A bit like a pair of mine I've got stashed under my bed, only about 7 sizes bigger. Not as impressive as the very tight leotard however. Not a trace of a bump. But hairy arms. Now my theory is, you wouldn't go through the bother of the Chop-Op and then not get round to waxing you arms. So his flexible friend had to be stowed away very neatly, somewhere. Well-wowed with those resonating bass notes then. Topic of the evening.

And YES s/he came and sat on my Mr GPants' lap. Bless him he took it well. I was hugging myself with glee. That box smartly ticked - tish!

And the little bald chap came back for another 2 minutes of juggling. Less to pick up this time. Just 5 balls and a hat. Much better. Do that next time little bald chap.

And one of the can-can girls came back too. She wouldn't. She might. Nah. Yes. Oh I say! She DID! Silver glittery nipples! I want some of those.

Shame the poor lass had to scramble back on later in her combats and hoodie to pick up all her discarded knick-knacks. Surely she could've sent someone else to do it. The little bald chap was free. But maybe she's had problems with this kind of thing before. Maybe a few too many special little items have been swiftly snaffled into some jugglers sequinned hat. Probably best left hands off eh?

But I really must say the true highlight of the evening was my Mr GPs all along. Elegantly pin-striped, a pencil-thin Clark Gable 'tache, a spot of Just For Men and a with naughty twinkle in his eye - my dashing rogue was just perfect. I even went so far as to declare I would change his name in my blog to something more fitting.

So it's goodbye Mr Golf Pants and HE-E-LLO-O-OO Mr Roving Blade.

Ding dong!


(Which reminds me..... any ideas on that leotard storage? Still on my mind. Don't really want it on my mind. Need closure. Let the bell end here!)

Doctor Doctor I Can't Feel My Feet..

That's because we've amputated your arms.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

Ok - so first up my alarm didn't go off. Lots of poking inert mop-tops with whispered panic. Violently dragging on socks and jumpers while their eyes were still shut. Trying not to wake up Mr GPants so he wouldn't tell me off for my alarm not going off. But he woke up and did That Face when I told him my alarm didn't go off. AND told me not to race just because we were late - with The Don't Race Face. Then he offered me the de-icer. 'I've got some. That's yours' I called sweetly as I raced - no I didn't... as I fluttered out the door. Squirted mine. Put it back in the boot. Decided I needed more. Boot now jammed shut. Fluttered back to the kitchen and grabbed the other bottle. Squirted more. Replaced it without detection. And away we scooted at last. Not racing. Not at all. Very difficult to race when you can only see out of one clear streak on the windscreen. ......mmmmmmhhhhh..... need more de-icer..... not going back...... just imagine The Face.

20 minutes on our way I don't think my brakes are being brake-y enough. Probably my imagination. Oooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh OK .....Mission Aborted.

Several hours later - and with mighty thanks to Jim Broadbent and his big warm truck, and his sage words about how crap my car is, I'm back home in my courtesy go-kart and coffee'd up at last. All nice and floppy. Mmmn.... It seemed like a good idea to rearrange the living room and get the xmas tree out. It seemed like a good idea to small people anyway.

Several hours later, once I (and I alone) had tidied, hoovered, rearranged the living room, I find myself cackling like an escaped lunatic in our out-house-'barn'-animal-shelter thing where we dump stuff not allowed in the house. Like Xmas. The hysteria inspired by a cacky space where the tree once lived. Until we threw it out last summer on one of our great purges. Not sure why I found this so screamingly funny. Could not stop laughing. Xmas tree denied! Hilarious.

Then our boiler decided we hadn't had enough fun yet. Put its hand to its brow and blanked out. Nice. Just as I thought my hands would never again regain feeling after expertly balancing the recycling box on the steaming tower of landfill bags. Structures that high are built to sway in the wind they are. That's science. If not art.

But all this to the merry tunes of the season. Mr GPants, grumpy about tinsel-time as the best, has (as odd as it may seem) produced another top xmas songs CD. Panic, near-death and brain-freeze all the sounds of Wizzard, Slade, The Pogues and Alma Cogan.

Gotta laugh.....

Pity the fool.....

That was a stoopid bloody post wasn't it? 'Ooh I bet it won't snow!' 5 days later and we were still in an igloo. But did I get all that lovely stuff done I dreamed about? Did I bugger. I forget that being in the house means being in the house WITH all the members of my own family, who are in the house with all the members of their own family, and this means....... well........ how can I put this nicely? I can't. We are not the Waltons. It's more like giant mutant bacteria on speed in the mosh pit at a Fishbone gig held in a crocodile-infested river when the wildebeest decide to cross from the ToysRUs bank to the Primark Sales side just as chimpanzee burglars on roller skates set off a couple of bombs and the elephant police come to search for clues in vaselined flippers and dalek hats. That nearly describes the interior 'look' we are going for this season. At what point in this scene I thought I'd get out my little pap mach tree is beyond imagination. I felt like a tiny mother bird squidged in the middle of a heaving mass of squawking open beaks. And if I raised my eyes to the heavens I was blinded by a blizzard of paper spikes. Who's bright idea was it to make pretty snowflakes? So now we had as much perplexing whiteness inside as well as outside the damned house. And wetness. My god the wetness. How much wetness 4 children can produce per garden excursion is knee-deeply astounding. My poor radiators just couldn't take the load. And so the sound of the washing machine door banging shut became louder and more floor-trembling with every slam of the back door. Well, when they bothered shutting the damned door that was. There was alot of door-banging one way or another - the washing machine, tumble dryer, the fridge, the oven ....... and what was that slam? Oh for fuck's sake they've bloody gone out again! More towels please...... More paracetamol..... Shame one can't quite slam the oven door behind one's head. I don't think it works with electric anyway. Would just have a hot pink bubbling noodle on my otherwise pasty white bod. Not good with magenta hair and flame streaks. I say 'flame'. It seemed better than 'orange'. I seem to have digressed.....

Ah well.....

What shall I wish for by accident next then?


Hey - I bet we never find a barrelful of gold under the old yew tree. Just think of the consequences that would bring eh?


(It might just work...?)

Snow Show

Has anybody actually got any snow out there, or are THEY just threatening it for something to talk about. I'm bored of it (yes Mother 'bored OF it' ha ha haa) already and we haven't had any yet. Apart from that bit that's just suddenly started flittering past the window - DAMN. I'm in a grumpy enough mood simply being cold and surrounded by children who think I'm interested in juggling and dinosuar contortionism.

Explanation of latest grump: cold, can't get on with the things I want to get on with, can't be bothered to get on with the things that I have to get on with, too many things that I want/have to to get on with, no energy, no gumption, no interest.... and another sore lip. To sum up: miserable git.

And I've drunk my coffee which means that I'm supposed to switch off now and go and 'do'.


But I keep getting distracted by hopeful little moppets squeaking about snowflakes.

Eughhh I hate bloody snow.


Then again....if it snowed, then I would have the perfect escape hatch from doing things. We'd be trapped in again and therefore excused from outside life. Not excused from inside life however, but it would still slow down - like driving past a road accident - to look through the windows alot and tut.

But...... we're out of biscuits. And proper coffee. So all in all it had better not bloody snow. Plus I am waiting for an appointment for some consultant type to peer up my lady bits. Probably best to get that out the way sooner rather than... But if it snowed I wouldn't be able to go. And I don't want to go. Not that they've made the appointment yet. Somebody rang me to ask if I could do Monday. Too much to reorganise so I asked what about Tuesday. 'I'm just booking Monday now' 'And you can't move on to Tuesday until you've filled up Monday?' 'Yes' ............. I'm assuming she never did fill every slot on Monday as I haven't heard back. Suppose I'll have to wait until Monday actually passes by and wait for the next appointment I can't meet to be offered. Don't you just adore medical administration? Even more useless than educational administration. Third in line are shoe shops who can't order in a non-shopsoiled pair of something until they've sold the unsaleable ones 'cos Head Office says so. Are office workers marked at birth? Worker ant, soldier ant, worker ant, soldier ant, unimaginative blinkered box-ticker with no communication skills? Yes, administration for you. Next! Taking that further..... what the bloody 'ell did I look like as a baby? Life of unachievement and chaos for this one. Hmmmnnnn - art college. That should bugger it up for the rest of its life. Aspiration with no talent - perfect. Next!

Maybe up in Cloudland the Snow Monkeys are waiting for all the forms to be completed and triple checked by Head Office before they're authorised to drop a flake. They're probably waiting for my appointment to be set. So I don't reckon it's ever going to snow.

For now, I've drunk my coffee (instant but I can't really tell the difference) so I'd better go and DO something. I can hardly contain my enthusiasm. Next job, the bogey hankie mountain.

.....Trudging through a Winter Wonderland.......

SOMEBODY tell me!

Just forgive me everyone for being so totally crap at catching up on my essential blog reading.

When I finally catch up on my non-essential advent fairy bullshit, and my totally non-interesting Xmas 'net shopping, I may attempt to get back to normal. Who am I kidding? I may attempt to get back to the familiar abnormal. But when my bloody children, (for whom I am surely making myself sick and anxious and angry and blog-starved), FINALLY learn how to GO TO BLOODY BED and BLOODY S T A Y T H E R E, I might just calm down. I might.

I now have just over a week to sew on stupid letters and stupid buttons and stupid bells and stupid tassels to my stupid bunting and I haven't even made all the stupid tassels yet, or threaded half the stupid buttons on to stupid wire to make stupid buttony beads to punctuate the stupid bunting flags with the stupid tassels on. All this to day-by-day slide onto the stupid cord which I still haven't even measured and checked if I have enough, which I will tie onto the stupid hooks which I still haven't checked if I have any, to the stupid oak beams which will probably be impossible to penetrate with the stupid hooks anyway.

And what did I do tonight whilst still waiting for damned children to go to bloody sleep?

Scribbled out next year's stupid bloody ideas for stupid bloody advent.

There really is something wrong with me.

But I adamantly refuse to fix it.

There must be a cure.

Drugs.

Tranquilizers for the kids. Tramlines of coke for me?

This is all a pathetic reaction against the fact that I cannot cook or keep the house clean or know what an iron looks like. I could just buy Spongebob chocolate calendars but no. I have to prove myself to be some sort of Mother Supreme by doing insane little secret makey special stupid bloody advent surprises every stupid bloody year and spend the last couple of months leading up to stupid bloody Xmas with an average of 2 hours of sleep per night. Then, of course I am such a delight to live with that my children will always cherish those warm Xmas memories for the rest of their disturbed blighted lives.

'Tis the season to be sectioned.


Damn - you know what - I could have just done at least 20 bloody button loops instead of spewing my guts all over the keyboard.

Forgive me everyone ........... but I'm gonna hit publish and get me tassels out.