fluffy!
sqwaaaaak!
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cometh the hour, cometh the confusion

Something must done.

See, in the first half of the year, at some random time around Easter, which, let’s face it, is always at some random time, they take one of my hours.

I am generally very grumpy with them about this.

The sneaky, sneaky hour-stealing buggers, taking my hours away in such a fashion. They take one of my hours and sneak off with it, making my night, my summer and therefore my life one hour shorter- just as the best bit of the year is arrivng, just when the light is expanding, the warmness is nicing up gently and the summerness is coming in – they take an hour away.

How did they know I didn’t want that hour? How did they know I hadn’t already made plans for that hour? Sitting in the sun plans, or looking at the sea plans, or spring cleaning with all the windows open plans? Plans that might therefore had have to have been rearranged due to houral-stealage issues.

All summer I spend without that hour. The whole British summer which, for some reason, has always seemed quite short.

I now realise why the summer is short. It is short because some bastard has been rifling through my hour-drawer and has made off with what, let’s face it, could have turned out to be the most important, most pleasant and summarily most summerlicious hour of the whole summer.

They do this. Them.
I hate them.

You know why I hate them most?
I hate them most because just when they’ve realised their badness, their wrongness, their evil summhour-stealing ways, they try to give it back.

And when do they give it back?
Why, they give it back in the middle of the notoriously pissy British October, always in the run up to yet another pissy British winter, and always, Always on a Sunday. And if there’s any day of the week that doesn’t need to be any longer, it’s sodding Sunday, frankly.

I don’t want my October to be longer, I don’t want my winter to be one minute longer and yet they – they, damn them, if they show their faces round here I’ll make them wish they never grew genitals… – make it last a whole sixty! Sixty minutes! Sixty minutes of wet, cold, october – or, should you wish to take that extra hour in lieu, then sixty minutes of cold, wet, November; sixty minutes of cold, Cold December; or sixty extra wet, wet minutes of wet, wet January. February. March. Etc.

Go and stand in a very wet fridge. This is what they do to us! This is what they foist upon us, the pesky, pesky hour-foistering bastards! What argument could there be for me not to hate them, in light of this?

They are wrong.

And bad.

I want the hour they took away in March, and I want it back in June, July.

I want all the hours back, I want them back all at once, next summer, on the nicest day.

In return, I am willing to return all the winter hours they forced upon me. They can take them back all at once, perhaps in January.

On a Sunday.
Or a Monday.
I don’t mind.

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Be prepared

Sometimes I get into a mood where I worry.
Sometimes I make myself worry, and there is actually nothing to worry about.
Sometimes there is something to worry about, but I cover it up with worrying about other things instead.

It is usually not something most people would worry about, and the incredible chain reaction of things are definitely things that most people would not worry about.

On these kind of occasions, I only have to think of one thing – one quite simple thing – to worry about, and, within minutes – much quicker, actually – the worry will have branched and branched again and sub-divided in my head until it is a very big, very complex worry that is much more difficult to pin down and therefore stop. It suddenly goes from being a block of lard of worry, that one could pick up and put outside the door or something, to an infestation of ants of worry, which, though you step on one, keep appearing and multiplying, seemingly unstoppable.

It is – hang on, some professional type person told me a word for it once. Something like disasterising.
That is in no way a word. But it was something like that.

So from one keyword, one key worry, everything divides and sub-divides – within seconds – quicker and quicker until you can no longer keep any kind of a handle on it at all. Or I can’t, anyway.

Or something like that.

Or, in fact, something like this…

Email: Beloved to Anna

Coming home soon. Everything ok?

Email: Anna to beloved

A bit worried about holiday.

Email: Beloved to anna

Why?

Email: Anna to beloved

Because

a) everything’s going to go wrong and
b) I’m going to look horrid in a swimsuit and
c) my swimsuit hasn’t arrived yet, the one from canada I actually like and
d) I don’t know whether to tip the driver who takes us from the airport and
e) I don’t know how we find the driver at the airport and
f) what if he’s not there and
g) I don’t know whether we’ll be able to upgrade rooms and
h) if were are able to I don’t know how

and

i) if we figure out how then I don’t know whether it’s after we’ve seen the first room and
j) I imagine it is so then the bell boy would probably carry our bags to the new room and then
k) I don’t know whether we’d tip him again and
l) if so I don’t know whether we’d tip him equal amount to the first time we tipped him and
m) what if we didn’t have enough change, what with the driver and everything if we
n) tipped the driver or
o) even HAD a driver at all.

p) And what if I get over tired before we go on holiday and just spend all my time ill because I’m over tired and
q) what if everyone there is very rich and dresses up for dinner and I haven’t brought the right clothes or the right shoes, and
r) what if everyone is thin and looks at me in my swimming costume and laughs or
s) even worse feels sick, and
t) what if we have an argument or
u) don’t get on or
v) have nothing to say to each other or
w) if you get bored and I don’t or
x) I get bored and you don’t or
y) the food is horrible or
z) there are hawkers and they are pushy and I get embarrassed and ashamed and give them all my money or
z) what if we run out of money or
z) the food is much more expensive than we think or
z) the other guests are horrible to us and
z) what if the flight is horrible and
z) the seats are too small for big arses and
z) what if I get DVT or
z) you do and
z) what if it’s the wrong choice,
z) the wrong hotel
z) the wrong country
z) everything
z) what if it’s still raining
z) what if it doesn’t stop raining
z) what if I get toothache
z) what if you get ill?
z) what if you spend too much time with me and decide you don’t want to be with me any more
z) we might get burgled while we’re away
z) we might get mice while we’re away
z) the bed is not comfortable or
z) my camera gets wet
z) we have no balcony or
z) no view or
z) the sun never hits the balcony or
z) I get spots on my back or
z) there are bitey lizards or
z) something happens here and
z) everyone gets cross with me while we’re away or
z) someone gets hurt and they don’t know how to find us or
z) Everyone looks nice in swimming costumes or
z) is very rich and
z) tanned and
z) thin or
z) everyone reserves the sunloungers so there is never anywhere to sit by the pool and
z) we have to spend the whole time in our room and
z) our room is horrible

I am also worrying about quite a lot of other things

but I have to go and start chopping the vegetables now.

a
xxx

________________________________

I may have just set myself off again.
Which is fine, I probably have a couple more days of this before it eases a bit.
But it will, once I put a stop to the silly catastrophising, as weirdly satisfying as it may be. It will calm down.

We still have almost two weeks before holiday and everything.

And, somewhere in here, I know it’s all going to be fine, and that only 79% of the things I think will go wrong will actually go wrong. Or, you know, maybe 78% or something.

Bitey lizards indeed.
Forgoodnesssakes.

Now bedtime. Bed time. Time to go to bed
and worry about this post.

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Mo’ meme, mo’ meme

That only works if you pronounce the word meme wrong, obviously.

Having successfully resisted the dreaded meme thing for most of my blogsistence – God, I’m sorry, lets pretend that word never happened – I succumbed once the other day and now there seems to be now end to it, it’s just all meme meme meme round here. Hahahaha. Stupid word. Meme. How I love you how I love you, my dear old meme.

Sorry.

Anyway. Yclepta “tagged” me with a meme, and I like her, and also I’m busy and my brain has popped, so I’m doing it. This does not mean, however, that I like being tagged with memes. I like all of you, but I don’t generally like doing it, because I’m supposed to be practicing writing, and other snobby bollocks that make it sound like I think I’m too good for memes but not what I intended to sound like.

Oh god. I told you my brain had popped. Sorry.

Or rather, that’s a convoluted way of saying ‘I am doing an meme’.
And yes, by the way, it is ‘an meme’. For reasons of something to do with the complex root of the word.
It’s from space.

Ok. Here I provide 20 interesting random facts about me whether you give a crap or not. This may well start off as a few, but be 20 eventually.

1) I am an extraordinarily picky eater, but will eat most things in public because I don’t want people to think I’m a picky eater, because it’s a bit silly.

I’m not even that picky – there are just a lot of things I’ve never got around to eating. For example I had beetroot for the first time ever last week, and mussels for the first time in Belgium earlier this year. The mussels were fine up to a point – if I start thinking about texture too much I get nauseous – but the beetroot tasted of mud. Which is funny, because I was expecting it to taste like Borscht, which I love.

2) I don’t consider facts about myself to be very interesting. I’m just trying to think about things I haven’t mentioned yet.

3) I love Dean Martin. Sometimes I wonder about when I finally get around to having children, what sort of songs I’ll sing them as lullabies. I think probably Dean Martin songs. Although this means the poor mites will grow up liking songs from 80 years before they were born, which is a bit weird.

4) I have an overactive imagination, and like to have things carefully planned about 10 years in advance.

5) But I can’t make decisions, so these things may or may not ever happen. It’s the planning that is considered the most important thing. To me.

6) I sing in a choir at lunchtime, sometimes. It is called the Guardian’s Angels. We sing pop classics and Vivaldi. Only occasionally does it sound like we’re singing both at the same time.
Oh, and we also sing Christmas music sometimes (Christmas, generally).

7) I don’t see the point in sudoku, and I can’t do them. These two facts may be related, but seem unlikely to change.

8) I am not very good at taking criticism. It can cause anything from a pout, to a little cry, to a big cry, to a two week sad and writers block. Something tells me I may not be cut out for a long freelance career.

9) I have an unhealthy addiction to the television programme “Extreme Makeover: Home Edition”, although I only watch the first ten minutes, when the presenters all cry, and then the last ten minutes, when the family all cry (at the sight of a flat-screen TV, generally).
I don’t care about the bit in the middle. Those who’ve seen it know what I’m talking about, those who haven’t – you’re probably better as you are.

10) I have never ever been on what you might term a ‘Beach Holiday’. Until Now.

Gosh that sounded dramatic, didn’t it? And it’s not really now. It’s in a bit. Now would be great and that, but I’m not packed.
The only packing I’ve done so far is a pile of books.
Oh, and a pile of swimming costumes, but you know about that.

I will think of other facts later. I have to go to work. I’m not sure there are twenty facts, but I will think very hard. And I’m not really sure about this whole tagging thing. If you think you want to try and write 20 random facts about yourself on your site, can you let me know and we’ll pretend we did the taggy thing?

Sorry to be rubbish.

Ooooh!

11) I say sorry too much. We started a ‘sorry’ box at home for a few weeks but stopped when the amount started to creep above my weekly salary. I say it far far too much.
There are several stages of knowing me. People tend to hit a ‘finding it annoying’ point after a few months, generally, and eventually tail off into a ‘not hearing it anymore’. I hope. Sorry if not.

I do try and stop myself, but often pull myself up by saying the word ‘sorry’ again, which I then have to apologise for.

I’m not sure that counts as a “random fact”. Sorry. Oh, shit, I said sorry. Sorry.

See?

Right. Erm.

12…

Update: Much later

Wow, what a shit-sodden day.

Random fact number 12: I have had a shit sodden day. It started with nearly getting run over. Twice. I should have gone back to bed at that point. And I would have done too, if it hadn’t have been for that pesky choir. And, you know, the fact I have to work to eat and stuff.

Stepping outside the fact that we’re supposed to be concentrating on a meme right now, in totally unrelated news, Laura has just asked in the comments what a ‘meme’ is, and I had to admit that I don’t really know.

The nearest I can get is that it’s doing a thing that everyone else is doing. Sometimes because other people instruct you to. Sometimes it’s a list of questions, and sometimes it’s more like an exercise. So basically it’s like homework, right? Except you’re grown up and it’s on your blog, yes?

If anyone can inform me what it is, that would be just great.

Right. I’m supposed to be doing a random fact thing. Um.

Update, later still

13: I despise having my photo taken. This is part of the reason I have no intention of getting married.

14: My favourite weakness is cheese. Goats cheese, blue cheese, grilled halloumi, bog standard cheddar. The fact that it’s mainly fat is a crying, crying shame.

15: I learnt to drive, failed my test (it was so Totally unfair, too) and couldn’t afford any more lessons. I therefore count myself as sort of able to drive, although strictly speaking I haven’t picked up a car for 11 years. Not Picked Up a car. You know what I mean.

16: I don’t know what to get my beloved for his birthday. I have no idea. What do you get the 27 year old man who has everything Plus a neurotic girlfriend?

17: Lordy, I’m going to have to think of some humdingers. This is going very badly.

Update: the next day

Ok. I shall get this done, sorry.

17: Or does the fact that I needed to think of some other things count as a fact in itself? Confused. Alright, let’s pretend that never happened.

17: Though my beloved and I live in the same place and work in the same place, we always travel to and from work seperately. People need their time to think.

18: At the beginning of next year I will be going to my very first opera, which is something I wouldn’t have imagined would happen, really, as I’ve always been quite vehemently anti-opera. Not that I don’t like it, I like the music very much. I’m just quite anti-opera. I should probably write a proper post about it. That’s the problem with random facts on a blournal. Either you’ve already written about them in depth or you could do, and with every one you see a full-length post disappearing down the gutter of listness.

God, that’s only 18, still, isn’t it. Sorry.

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I’m not dead

Honestly, I’m just a little tiddy bit busy.

I should post you some links.

There you go. Mike made me laugh on friday and it’s still making me giggle now.

Or, talking of Mike, you could go and read something about the Eurovision 50th anniversary special. I mean, it’s not *by* Mike, it’s by me, but Mike likes Eurovision too.

Or go and read Jonny, just because he’s there.

I will be back tonight if I can think of enough clever things to say on pieces of paper elsewhere quick enough, or tomorrow if not.

Kisses etc.

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World o’ Nylon, Kingdom of Lycra

Someone has to stop me.

If my calculations are correct, and I’m hoping that they’re not, in a few days, I will have moved from a relative swimming costume drought to a position in which I may quite possibly drown in the damned things.

I will explain.

As the attentive among you may have noticed, I have been making subtle little ‘I’m going on holiday soon’ noises. Attentive you may be, but curious you’re not: you haven’t asked about it, so I’m not going to tell you. Insert rasberry noise here.

This is an incredible and exciting thing in many ways – not the me refusing to tell you things, that’s just petulent. The me going on holiday thing: that’s ace – but the area in which it is not exciting at all is the area concerned with stripping off in public.

Oh no, that’s not a good area at all.

Remember the blue-dress related unhappiness of a few weeks ago? The hateful shopping experience, the despised retail industry and their million lines of clothing for no one who looks like me? Well you can take all of that, and do it nine times over with whipped cream when it comes to the idea of swimming costumes.

I don’t have a swimming costume. Well, I didn’t. A few weeks ago, once the holiday had been booked, I realised that if I was going to be spending x amount of time lying about on beaches and y amount of time in swimming pools, I was going to require z amount of swimming costumes. Z can, in this instance, safely be assumed to be “1″.

Or that’s what normal people would think, anyway.

I ordered a swimming costume from a large online home shopping thingo. It didn’t arrive. Emails flew back and forth – mine angry, theirs automated.

Eventually, they admitted they had failed. I panicked. Time was running out, my ‘number of swimming costumes’ was still running at a stable ‘None’, my confidence was running low. I ran into the arms of eBay.

Searched for swimming costumes. New, you understand. Not second hand. Brain fuzzed. New to eBay. Bid on swimming costume. Bid on another. Lost them both to snipers. Panicked. Bid on another few. Found one that I could ‘Buy now!’. Did that. Found another. Did it again. Large online home shopping thingo emailed offering to re-send orginal order. Grumpily agree that they might. They do not respond. Then I start winning eBay auctions.

Yesterday, a stressful day, is made a little ridiculous by emails that keep arriving, saying “Congratulations! You are the winning bidder! Now pay for your item.” By the fourth, I am hitting my head against the desk.

I still have no tangible swimming costumes. I still don’t know if any of them fit or suit me. One is coming from Canada. I’m not even sure how their sizing system works: In a quiet corner of the office, an eBayer possessed, I measured my hips with my ipod earphones and a ruler against the numbers they suggested.

I haven’t got a swimming costume to my name, but have a feeling that there are four in the post. Maybe five.

I’m hoping that what I have bought is the right thing. One of them. But every time I go to eBay to check, I seem to start browsing, only aware that I don’t have, in my possession, a single swimming costume. I have a post-it note stuck to my desk, another to the laptop at home. It says “NO MORE COZZIES”.

I’m now hoping against hope that I’ll be outbid on the remaining auctions.
Otherwise there will be more. Several more.

Someone has to stop me.

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Not a dog person, but still…

While Peter is looking for a name for his cat, I need a name for a puppy.

Not a real puppy, a Nintendogs puppy. I’m writing a thing about it, so it has to be the name to end all names.

I was thinking “Graham”.

Although if anyone’s got anything better (as if there could be a better and/or funnier name for a dog than “Graham”) then I will use that instead.

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Principled by nature – idiots in fact

This morning, a rainy morning in north London, and I climbed on a half empty bus at Angel.

Next to the door, downstairs, and sitting on the aisle side of one pair of seats was an umbrella, a folded, perfectly functional looking umbrella.

But it was funny, because everybody who got on the bus – including me, looked at the seat, and then avoided it. I watched the other people avoid it. Sometimes the avoidance seemed to be due to an etiquette-oriented idea of “Ah, someone must have reserved this seat, I mustn’t sit there” – (I’m not sure how, maybe by sending their umbrella on its little umbrella-y legs a few stops down the road – I mean, it’s cute, but logic isn’t logic at silly a.m.), or the quiet, paranoia-oriented (try saying that while pissed) idea of “Oh My God! An umbrella bomb!” -(Look, I only thought it for a second, I swear. Some people thought it for a lot longer – you could see it in their eyes…), and everyone, everyone scattered to different seats.

Not one person, in the time between my getting on the bus and gettig off, thought the thing that we all really should, by the basic law of human interest have thought:
“Ooooh! A free umbrella”

Consequently, we all got off the bus and were immediately soaked to the skin, reminding us that opportunism should be next to cleanliness. Or something.

Whatever. Point being;
I didn’t steal another human being’s possessions this morning. I wish I had.

And then it was a shitty day.

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Captain Crisps and FagEndBoy

It was a lunchtime expedition to buy some holiday reading from the shopping mall near work. In Angel. Angel’s such a lovely name for a place. I love that I visit an Angel everyday. Anyway.

Walking toward Borders, we noticed a man dressed as an enormous crisp packet, with a woman, talking to some people ernestly. The ginormous crisp packet that the man was wearing had ‘Wasters’ written on it.

Closer to the shop, there was a gargantuan cigarette walking around, approaching shoppers and engaging them in something. I didn’t know what he wanted to talk them about so desperately. I didn’t really want to find out. I didn’t really fancy approaching a big fag-end for conversation.

Leaving the shop, four books later, we were startled by an urgent conversation going on outside.

“You should pick that up” said the enormous crisp packet. “We’re cracking down on litter, you should pick that up”

“No” Said the embarrassed looking man. “Why should I?”

“‘Cause we’re cracking down on litter”, said the crisp packet.

“But you are litter”, said the man.

“No, I’m from Islington council, and I can fine you £50 if you don’t pick that up”

“How am I supposed to take you seriously?” Said the litterbug. “You’re a crisp packet”

“I’m a crisp packet who’s about to fine you £50″, said the crisp packet.

And the man bent down and picked up the cigarette butt (not the ginormous one with a man inside it, the little one that he’d dropped on the floor), and took it to a nearby bin. Then, suitably embarrassed, he and his litter-bug-missus scuttled away into the crowd.

It’s got to take the shine off your manhood, being publically admonished by a snack food wrapper.

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Meanwhile, elsewhere …

I really like this thing I just wrote about Neighbours over here. So go and read it please. If you like, I mean. No pressure or anything.

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Sunday night thoughts

Are few and far between, generally. And, when they strike, often come at a point when no one can be arsed with typing. Because it’s Sunday night. So I might well still be writing them up on Monday morning.

(Update I am. So I’m changing the date to reflect that. Or I might just change it back and forth all day for fun.)

But still.

1) I couldn’t help but think there’s little I’d like less than to give or recieve this novelty cake. Not because there’s any thing wrong with it – novelty cakes are ace, obviously – but because of what it’s clearly supposed to be celebrating, and the fact that in order to eat it, you have to stick a knife into it, repeatedly. And then, you know, eat the insides.

Sorry, maybe just me, but I would feel Odd. Very odd. And a bit wrong.

2) Being very curious about things in general, I happened to be looking up the extended weather forecast for various parts of South Asia and found the Sri Lankan cantre for meteorology. While I have no doubt in the world that the centre itself and the information coming from it is technologically right on the button, I feel that they might have chosen a better picture for their front page than a ladder leading up to the top of a rather unimpressive-looking pole which carries a) an ariel and b) one of those spinny-roundy wind things. It leads to mental pictures of people climbing ladders and shouting down the forecast.
Right, well, it’s raining over that way, can you put that on the internet please?
“Yes, alright. What about the other way? Is it sunny?”
Yes, but there’s a bit of lightning. I might hang on to this ariel for safe – oh, no, bollocks. I’m coming down now.

There’s also a tsunami announcement saying that there is no tsunami expected and everyone on the coastal regions ais requested to keep calm. So I don’t have to worry unless that message changes and everyone in the coastal regions is politely requested to panic.

3) I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, wondering whether my sightly bohemian area of London is the only one in which one gets bothered by anti-social French art-house movie watching, late at night.

I start to wonder whether it’s possible to enforce some kind of ASFAHMWO on whichever ponce out back believes that Audrey Tatou is at her most winsome at 879 decibels.

An ASFAHMWO is an anti-social-French-art-house-movie-watching order, pronounced ‘A-Is-Farm-Woah’, like that chi-chi new Angolese restaurant that’s just opened round the corner. They’re probably a big fan of that too. And I imagine them talking about it, loudly, in the pub to their pals, while drinking red wine. And then they bray, like horses, and change the subject to that simply a-MA-zing Audrey tatou film that they’re planning on watching very late at night and very loudly. And then I throw something at them, like a stool, or a big dog, or a fat guy.

Being kept awake at night makes me grumpy.

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Bus rage

Maybe it’s just it corresponds exactly with it being either
a) first thing in the morning and me wanting to be in bed, not on my way to work, or
b) last thing in the evening and me want to be home already, or in bed

– but never will you find me as short tempered as on the 35 minute bus-ride to and from work every day.

I’m not a sitting study in anger management gone bad, don’t get me wrong, but it only takes a slight transgression from proper bus etiquette (or busiquette, as it shall be hereafter known) to light the fizzle-string of the little bomb of ‘cross’ in my stomach and make me glower at people, almost imperceptably.

At least I thought I was glowering ‘almost imperceptibly’. Apparently, it’s actually ‘quite perceptibly indeed’, according to my beloved. He tells me I’m going to get punched someday. Not if I punch them first, I say.

Of course, it doesn’t have to be a breach of busiquette to rile my grumpy-button and tickle my ire.

I get annoyed at many things. People wanting to get off the bus, for example. And people wanting to get on the bus. They really fuck me off.

It’s not that they don’t have as much right to be on the bus as me, of course they do. But they will slow the whole process down so much.

What would be best, I think, would be if everyone could get on at my stop or before, and then no one get on or off between there and mydestination. I don’t care what happens after that. They can do as they please after that. I’m sure everyone would be alright with this idea – it would be like a lock-in. Except in a bus, rather than a pub.

Apart from the whole people getting on and off the bus problem, there are other things which don’t particularly fit into the busiquette brackets. Cylists having to cycle in the bus lanes because there’s no cycle lane – I understand the reasoning behind this, but still wish you could find it in your heart (or legs) to move faster than the bus. Traffic lights that have the temerity to change just when I don’t want them to, smudges of hair grease on the window so you can’t look out without feeling a bit sick.

But worse than all of these are the flagrant breaches in busiquette – hanging should be brought back for these.

For
1) Over zealous use of elbows: Listen to me. You are not the only person on the bus. You getting to wherever you’re going is no more important than anyone else getting to wherever they’re going, and tutting, hissing and elbowing people in the back doesn’t make you look important, or special, it makes you look like a twat.

2) Sitting in the disabled and seats and not getting up when someone disabled or elderly gets up: It’s not just rude, it’s comitting the worst sin in the world – that of social-unawareness. When people can’t see what’s going on around them and that there are other people with needs equal to or greater than their own, then it’s wrong, ignorant, and twatty. Sorry, were you brought up, or dragged up?

3) Ringing the god damned bell too many times You heard it – someone else rung it. You heard it, didn’t you? Then why are you ringing it again? Why are you letting your 13 year old child ring it 17 more times? Are you deaf? Are you insane?

4) Ringing the god damned bell too god damned early: Picture the scene. The doors have just shut – sometimes they’ve not even shut yet. The next stop is half a mile and 2 mintues down a busy road. Some nervous bastard rings the bell. Why?! Why?! He’s more likely to forget before we get there, and besides, that just give more opportunity for point three – ringing the bell too many bloody times. Are you crazy? Are you stupid? No? Then why are you doing this then?

5) Your smelly food: I’m thinking chicken wings, particularly. Please go away. And take your stinky stinky food with you. Oh, no, leave it under the seat, then. Brilliant. Thanks!

6) (reminded by mat in the comments, but my god, these bastards have always been on the list…The men with gigantic balls: Seemingly possessing the biggest pair of testicles since the extinction of the mammoth, these idiots have to take up two seats, or at least one and a half, sitting with their legs Very Far Apart so everyone knows it. I could say it also makes it easier to deliver a swift punch in the nuts, but to be fair, I haven’t actually done that.

Yet.

Oh there’s more…. But oh – I have another enormous party to go to…

There are more though – and I’m right, aren’t I?

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Flushed

Last night, I had a fantastic cover-all idea for something fast and fantastic to write today.

I tried my hardest to remember it, but five minutes and a set of ablutions later, it had completely disappeared, which is making me incredibly annoyed.

This presents witha conundrum. Should I;
a) Start taking my beloved ideas diary (it’s Moleskine, you know) and pen into the toilet?
or
b) Just learn to let these things go?

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The ballad of the blue dress

it’s funny, folk seem to assume that
you’d never be called upon, as one who is fat
to go somewhere special, a party or such
that no-one would ask you to go to balls, much
or that, if you were asked for sympathy’s sake,
you’d probably rather sit home and eat cake.

Walk down any high street, you’re likely to find quite a few shops provided for the cuddlier sisters among us. For the larger lady. For the ‘plus sized’ person, which, I assume, means that you are ‘sized like one person plus another person’, which is a bit like what happens when one person eats another person – and let’s face it, that’s probably what got you in this position in the first place, isn’t it?

Anyway. They are fine – all lovely and fine and dandy – these person-plus(-person) shops. As long as you want sensible clothes, work clothes, suit type clothes, jeans, highly patterned stretchy tops, or cardigans the size of the Middle East. Also if you want enormous knickers. They do a nice line in enormous underwear. Well, I *say* a nice line, more like a nice mass of enormous pants, really. Line doesn’t have that much to do with it when you’re talking about that kind of expanse.

But they don’t really do party dresses. Whether they don’t think you get invited to enough parties, or whether they think you don’t care to dress for them, I don’t know.

So, well, you can try other high street stores, and hope that they’ve thought to stock your size – but if they have, they’ll have just scaled up the design from an 8 to an 18 – no difference in cut. From twiggy to pillary, curves never cross their mind.

Madam, can I help? Are you after this style?
I can look in the back room, it might take a while
No, I’m sure that we have a few sizes above
what we have on the rails, as a brand here, we love
to think that we cater to all sizes of bottoms
hold here while I look, for I’m sure that we’ve got’m -
and yes, first designed for that person you ate
But they’ve been cut to fit you, they’re three times as great
(that’s great as in large, not great as in… well
It won’t look as good, but then, come, what the hell
it’s not fashion, your arse) What, You’re going? Ok
I can’t say that I blame you, your hunger must sway –
I have thin customers to attend to anyway…

I spent an evening sitting trawling the internet for pretty clothes, for people who weren’t high street size – but weren’t beach-ball size either.

If you fall in the middle there, there’s not many people interested in clothing you. I guess they must assume that you’ll either be wanting to cover yourself thoroughly, or that, well you must be trying to get thinner anyway, so won’t be looking for anything too special – what would you be doing going out to a party on a diet?

Typing “pretty dresses fat” into google, however, brought me page after page of depression. Fat people who liked being fat. Diet pills for fat people who didn’t. Thin people who liked fat people. A lot. Thin people who didn’t. At all. Fat people who wanted to fight for their right – well that was fine, I thought. That was fine with me, but if they could have been fighting for that right, while wearing pretty dresses, which they were also selling and could be delivered quickly – then that would be better.

Wanted: One evening
Dress proper and girly
for one ‘plus’; some tits;
and some hips, so if twirly
when walked with a sway it’s
a plus. I’m not fussy
too much about shade.
Want some cleavage – no hussy,
but attention is paid
to these puppies – so yes.

Desperate? I confess.
But for once not the mess.
Or the lesser – not less
than the others; the rest.
I want once to impress.
I want to. In your dress.

I found a dress. I found a dress, and it said ’14 days delivery’. And I had two days. So I cried some more.

And then an angel – or perhaps my sister – gave me advice that I might take on wholeheartedly from now on. I asked nicely.

That’s one version of the story. The other version was that I got all corporate on their ass, used my position and demanded their swift attention. The truth is that I emailed them asking – near begging – if, should they have any in the right size in stock, and if it might be possible to get them next-day delivered, it might just save one fat girl’s ass. Or one girl’s fat ass. Whatever.

The next morning, they emailed, and as long as I ordered by lunchtime, they promised it could be with me the next day, Thursday.

The next day, Thursday, just as my waiting-in beloved went out to the post office, they were as good as their word, and delivered, and then of course took it away again, and hid it in the package office.

I bought shoes, and a cardigan, handbag and a necklace – all to match the dress I’d never seen. And the next morning, the morning of the party, I went to the package office at the crack of dawn, or, you know 8 or whatever, and picked up my frock. And took it home. And tried it on.

And thanks to some nice people, and the internet, and my sister, and the fact that not *everyone* expects chubby girls to wear flowery blouses and black wide-leg trousers, I did go to the ball.

So there.

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Apologies

For the post below.

I was very bored.

I wish I could say I was very drunk, but I wasn’t.
I make sense when I’m drunk.

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This is a little red boat. Little, red, and boaty.

I still post. Occasionally. Honest, I do.