Whatever happened to bog standard stuff? This morning I noticed my toothpaste was running out. When I looked up onto the bathroom shelf I noticed that there was a tube there after all but I didn’t recognise it. To my horror it wasn’t my normal one. It was this weirdy one in gold tubing with the words ‘Colgate Time Control’ written all over it. Bloody hell! How did that get there? My partner must have bought it. It says it strengthens gums ‘n’ shit. I think it must have been there for a few days. I have a vague recollection of catching sight of something gold out of the corner of my eye but had not fully noticed it until now… with the toothpaste situation critical. Damn. I spent the next few minutes eyeing it up suspiciously while I brushed my teeth with the last remaining remnants from my usual tube. I always always always buy Colgate Total Plus Whitening. Why’s there so much stuff to choose from nowadays? Oh my God I’m becoming resistant to change. I must be getting old. Perhaps I do need the special gummy toothpaste stuff after all. Over breakfast I realise that I have no-one to blame but myself. A few days ago I had told him about a small unexplained area of swollen gum that I couldn’t help tonguing continuously. He obviously over-reacted.
Don’t ever buy a flat in an ex-council block because the local authorities still wield the sword that fucks you up. If the law is an ass then the councils are certainly the peristaltic shit infested tubes that lead to it. Don’t ever expect to ring the council and speak to a human being; instead, be prepared for a buck-passing, generic phrase spouting shit shoveller who cares nothing for the safety and well-being of its residents. Local authority is a painfully constipated place where messages never get passed on, miscommunication is the policy and information retrieval is a dirty word and yields about as much information as a rectal examination on the clenched buttocks of a reluctant patient. They will fuck you over management fees and to do anything to get out of fulfilling their responsibilities of caring for communal areas and, to top it all off, will leave you in a community cesspool of their own making where they house coke addicted residents to feed on your emotional and physical well-being like big fat blue bottles in a shitfest. They will fuck you they will fuck you they will fuck you, sideways, upways, every way and charge you for that service. The Anti-social behaviour teams are actually ANTI social behaviour who appear to be, above all, skilled in the art of idiocy. They are fuckwotless and fuckwitless. These people should be subject to capital punishment for their negligence.
Meanwhile, the government upgrades cannabis from class C to class B but the local authorities can’t even effectively close down one longstanding crack house. I would rather invest in a cardboard box than take out a mortgage on an ex-council flat next time. The very term ‘ex-council’ is a misnomer. Broken doors are left broken, crackheads are left smoking. You still remain under their irresponsible command. I would like to hope that this is not the same across all of London but the fact that their staff have responded to all my enquiries with the imbecilic simplicity of a single celled organism does not inspire me with much confidence.
Today I went to the doctors and the surgery was full of sick people; one woman could barely walk, another was doubled over with stomach cramps and tears in her eyes, all the kids were crying. It was horrible. If they were that ill they should have stayed at home or should have gone, as the receptionist sagely advised them, “to the hospital walk-in clinic”. I go to the doctors to feel better not worse. They sent my blood pressure up. What’s wrong with these people? They should be sat down and formally instructed in the proper use of NHS resources. One middle aged woman had the right idea. She got up to move seats, complaining that the baby next to her had a cold. That’s the spirit love.
Can someone please tell me, how do I get out of my dressing gown on a weekend? It’s like the uniform of the sloth, driving well meaning people into slovenly ways. It’s like the Bermuda Triangle of the weekend. Last week I spent 3 hours lost within it before re-discovering the joy of real clothes. 3 hours in dressing gown, 2 hours out of dressing gown, followed by another 2 pre-bedtime dressing gown hours by which time it had totally lost its appeal. Perhaps it could become an olympic event; the sport of stopping your dressing gowned arse from hitting the sofa.
I’m really into comics at the moment… ahem graphic novels I mean. I fear I am going through an early midlife crisis. I don’t have the energy to go out and buy a motorbike so when I have a spare moment I just sit and read comics. Why, at this late stage in my life, do I feel the need for a little boom boom kapow with men in pants? Picture books are also taking on a new meaning in my little world. When reading to my boy I feel the compulsion to read certain stories in a Pakistani or Welsh accent (sometimes the Pakistani slips inexplicably into the welsh). And it’s always with particular stories. After months of not reading a certain book I stumble across it again only to find myself with the same odd compulsion. Sometimes I feel myself slipping into a Cockney lilt or reconnecting with the hyper-Northern lassie within myself. I think it’s all a conspiracy by people who create children’s books and programming. We all know they’re sending out subliminal messages. I’m still disturbed by the fact that I saw Big Cook Little Cook presenting Big Brother’s Big Mouth one year. Now they can’t say even the word ‘celery’ or ‘pitta’ without me seeing inuendo. How am I ever going to recover from that?
Capable of the most elaborate puppy dogs tales. Every day when his dad comes home he says he has had a nap even though he’s spent the entire day running up and down like a maniac on speed, bouncing himself off the furniture at every available opportunity. By now he must think his name is ‘be careful!’. And that’s not all he lies about. Last week his dad asked him if he had had chocolate (because he’s permanently behaving as if he’s had a hit of something). To this the defendant replied, “Yes,” and then accused me of having given it to him. This was news to me. Now, neither of us have anything against chocolate (each night I down kilos of it just to keep myself sane) but it’s the principle of it isn’t it? He’s either working towards putting me in jail or has a strong desire to make his father question my truthfulness. Perhaps he has a strong desire to manufacture a broken home. Ahh kids, don’t ya just love ‘em?
He’s got obsessive compulsive disorder, always toddling around with his Og-Pog, soap and sponge. It still hasn’t encouraged my boy into domestic ways (apart from a bit of over-zealous sweeping with the dustpan and brush which he invariably gets bored of ). To the task of picking his nose? utter diligence though. Makka Pakka can come round my place. He could wipe all the bogeys off the furntiure. He’d be well happy.
He only eats Rice Crispies for breakfast at the moment and practically gags if I put anything red near his plate. He loves pasta but as most sauces are tomato based this creates quite a problem. Today I dared to offer him chicken goujons. Despite his 2 week abstinence from meat I thought I might be able to slip this one past him. He refused to be swayed from his vegetarian path. I want to know which spindle waisted leaf eater put this one into his head. (Weeks ago, in a moment of desperation, I had stopped by to view a vegan pre-school which promotes love of all living things. Perhaps it was those fuckers). He took a few bites then spent the better part of the evening attempting to decrumb the goujon…crumb by crumb. He then decided it was a good idea to dip the goujons in mayonnaise (which he had specifically requested, I might add) and then feed the remainder of his meal to the penguins that decorated his placemat. When his father grew bored of these games and virtually fell asleep at the dinner table he turned to me and enquired in the most innocent of tones, “Don’t wake daddy up?” to which I replied “What would you do if I asked you not to?” His answer was, “Play and shout…and drum…loudly.” It was then we realised we were dealing with no ordinary child.
He’s really into picking his nose at the moment. Like a seasoned archaeologist he spends several minutes indulging himself before presenting me with the products of his dig perched on the end of his index finger before proceeding to wipe them on my clothes…yes!my clothes! and then walking off as if nothing has happened. He’s got a cold at the moment and should I even attempt to wipe his nose he smacks my hand away demanding that I “leave the snot up there”. He gives fresh meaning to the words ‘little bugger’.
Last night I dreamt I was a big cat, possibly a tiger, much to the excitement of my young son. At the moment he finds it highly necessary to thrust various farmyard animals, cuddly toys, cardboard cutouts, toy cars and various other objects into my hands and instruct me in the art of role play which invariably involves me being mummy pig/purple car/giraffe/rabbit while he, baby pig/red car/elephant/Tigger, holds inane conversations with me about mundane animal/motor activities. Anyway, I digress (into a hell of my own making). Last night I dreamt I was a tiger and my partner was, I think, also present as some other kind of big cat. We did not really wholly look like these animals. What does that mean? Does it connect in any way with the dream I had about escaping from a perilous gangland nightclub situation on the no.73 bus only to find myself trapped in a dark outdoor stairwell by Donald Sutherland. Or does it have any connection with my dream about being back at school with an old school friend and the guy out of An Officer and a Gentleman reliving my recurring dream of being sat on the toilet in a public place whilst not being able to close the cubicle door properly? At least I looked and felt sexy this time. Perhaps it’s linked to the other dream I had last night about the social dilemma of whether to attend some exams or go to the 3 weddings of 3 of my cousins (all of which were happening on the same day). No wonder I’m so tired all the time. I spend most of my unconscious time agonising over social decisions, running for my life or trying to maintain modesty on the toilet.
