We Shall Name Them... Thingies.

Yesterday I did two strange things. I shared this blog address on a little Facebook group, and I read through some of these old witterings.

It's strange to let people in long after the party is over. And it's strange to imagine these giants I live with were once smaller than me.

They all need new names. I shall now fritter more precious tick tocks trying to think of some.

I could stick with their names I use in my book. The Book!! Which turned out to be five books. Possibly six by the time I finish.

By the time I finish... There's a comedy. I am a comedy writer. Not a writer of comedy, but a point-at-able joke with an i-pad.

I want different names for here though. I am tempted to keep Chicken Boy, Dog Boy, Corn Snake Boy as ever he was. He would currently be Budgie Boy. Dirty little fuckers are budgies. Feathers and bird shit all over his room.

But Budgie Boy sounds kinda sweet. He's lovely, but he's a cheeky git. He needs something a bit more savoury. They all do. I can't call my 6 foot despairer of his family's fuckeries Little Rock Godling anymore. And he doesn't still fit in his skulls-on-fire t-shirt.

Minx would kill me for having such a lame name. I did come up with these stoopid titles in a hurry. Just tapped 'em out without much thought and left it at that. Thuglet really suited him though.

I need something fearsome for Minx, cutting for Budgie Boy, respectfully terrifying for LRG and more lollopy for Thuglet. I need to look down the barrel of my own smokin' gun and say what I see.

I see four astounding superbods. Four Horsepeeps of the Acrapolypse. (Hey our house got a name too.)

Ooh four... I could get all deck of cardsy, or directiony, or elemental, or Jungian... I'm just comin' up with Rock, Scissors, Paper, Middle Finger. You play those roolz too don't you?

Nah. I'll call 'em Betty, Fred, Barney and Wilma til I gets inspired. Fuck 'em.

Ping plus ping equals plus twos

'Not plus fours. These are plus twos. Plus fours are baggier.'

So now you know.

What else have I learned lately?

Lots. But I can't remember. Really interesting things too. What was I watching last night that made me go 'Ooh well I never!!'? Roving Blade even raised an eyebrow impressed by the new info. I bet he won't remember either.

It's like that these days. If I remember to put my shoes on before leaving the house it's a triumph. R Blade used to despair of my memory, until he misplaced his own. Now I get to tut back. Or smile all angelic like. Coz it's payback. And payback is way more fun when you pretend to be supportive but are almost imperceptively taking the piss. It lasts longer.

I love learning new things. It makes my little brain go ping. If only my little brain would put it somewhere accessible. But I don't have that kind of little brain.

I have the kind of little brain that will never recollect things on demand, only when someone else is speaking. Then I have to blurt out the spark before it darts behind the mental wardrobe for another seventeen years.

This is consider rude by many people. Fuck them. I'm not rude. Just optimistic that they will be as interested in my amazing brainflash as I am.

Most people are not. They think I should learn some manners. Or learn to regulate my impulsiveness. Or learn how to pretend to not be me. But they might learn summink interesting from my cheeky outburst. And so might I - even if I am relearning something old. I will now be relating it to something new and making a brand new ping for my optimistic little brain. Making connections. Ping ping ping.

I wish for many pings to come. I hope I never stop pinging. Maybe forgetting things isn't so bad - I get to recycle my pings. Recycling is good.

Watching a film I watched last year with no idea what happens in the end is brilliant. 'I've seen him in something...' 'Yeah he was in that funny thing as the boyfriend.' 'And she was in that singy one with the sequel... and that one where she was married to the boyfriend from thingie.' 'Oh yeah. Like this one.' 'Yeah this one.'

'It was this one wasn't it?'
'No...' 'Maybe'
'We've seen this haven't we?'
'Yeah.'
'Can you remember what happens?'
'No. I think we realise he's a dick.'
'Yeah he's definitely a dick.'
'I didn't know she was in it.'
'Me neither.'

'What was she in?'
'That singy one.'

We are both a cheap date. Watch an old film like it's new. Tell each other 'You've had your tea'. Compliment him on his fresh haircut, from last month. Dig out the old shiny leggings 'Ooh!!'

It's fab. Lots of pings. I'm always learning something new... ish. And I'll share it with you when you least expect it.

I'm sorry that I have completely forgotten what I was initially going to blog about. Never mind eh?

But next time you find yourself talking to a dapper old golfer you can ask, impressively, 'I say old boy, are those plus fours or plus twos?' And no doubt he will be delighted to enlighten you.

You're welcome.

Golf... I think I was going to say something about golf. Where has that thought gone then?

'In the hole!!!!!'

Ahh. That'll do.

Techno Dive

I am in bed, the cradle of creation. Poncey way of saying I can't sleep and am fucking about with an old email address key to the door of my old blog. Normally I would not feed this particular troll, but I am tired and brain-buzzy at the same time, therefore my decisions are compromised.

So testing testing 1, 2, 1, 2... Is this my portal to a past life? A perilous anomaly of the space-time continuum... ummm...

To anyone that knows me/knew me - just look at my single space after a full stop - wow cool we love you I love you too. It's almost a natural thing now. I've evolved... a bit. I haven't growd up though.

It's been years since my last successful posting of any bloggery due to technical wank and in that time I have learned little. But after a painful tech battle where I lost six years of work, eventually retrieved in a chaotic contaminated state, I was forced to accept the single space.

The universe has many ways to make you suffer for your own good. Although I have yet to realise the joy of a fucking street lamp right outside my bedroom window. No I can't do curtains. My bedroom is a conservatory and I'm not doing bloody curtains all round that. Bright orange glare in my eyeballs it is then.

One day we will move away from such a peopled state back to the brambles of hermit life. But for a few years yet, we are obliged to pretend to be modern humans for the sake of the social offspring.

Fuck me the streetlight just went out!! One minute to one am. That'll be council cuts. Or can I claim witchcraft? Either way - woohoo!! Except now I need a wee and won't find the toilet in the dark.

So here endeth the testing testing 1, 2, 1, 2... Thank fuck for that - always several 1, 2s too long. But maybe I shall return if the universe deems it educational.

Not that I am receptive to learning anyfink. Have a laugh universe!! Knock yerself out. However, I shall remain the tedious bastard I always was.

Did you miss me?

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.

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?

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.

No.

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.  

Cunts.

Dare I?

Not sure.  Bit scared.

May come back later...