Tuesday, March 24, 2015

Home Alone

Ginger Beard has forgotten about me.

That's right guys, I am the five year old at the school gate, with a shaking bottom lip, a My Little Pony Lunchbox and a serious abandonment complex. All because the person who's supposed to look after me has become over-interested in an Argos catalogue, or, knowing Ginger, tripped over an untied shoe lace and face planted London.

I've asked one of the Sales Team to wait with me. I'm afraid to be alone here. They might turn all the lights off, or worse still, make the assumption that I'm happy to work in my free time.

We're supposed to meet for dinner pre a comedy gig.

Already I'm excited about my apology gift - usually a selection of cakes from the Humming Bird Bakery.

With every passing minute, the apology gift grows more impressive. Let's hope he forgets about me for another half an hour. That way, we will still have time to eat, and I can demand a puppy.

Nothing says sorry quite like a puppy that you can't really look after, and fall in love with a bit, before admitting your inadequacies as an owner, and returning in hysterical sobs.

Do you remember when I told you he had a run of forgetting I was in the bathroom with him, and turning the light off as he left? Yeah? I have to marry this shit. This is the rest of my life guys.

OMG The Sales Team person is leaving me. He should be like the teacher that has to bitterly stay behind and distract me with colouring in.

This is a fucking horror film.

I'm going to take pictures of myself looking sad and send them to him.

The I'm going to go to the comedy gig by myself, and see if any of the strange yet intriguing men there fancy getting married to me in September.

Probs will, IT'S NOT LIKE I'M FORGETTABLE OR ANYTHING.




Tuesday, March 17, 2015

Smooth criminal

Guys, I just ate a whole chocolate orange, like it was actually an orange.

I don't know if there's a word for the start of that process, but there's a word for the end of it -obesity

I broke down each segment into a negative feeling I had, and then I ate them. I ate my delicious feelings.

I think I might be sick, but I'll try to finish this blog first.

So, some potential replacements for my lovely housemates, Fats & Fats, were shown round on Wednesday at 4pm.

At 3pm, I trashed the kitchen. I went to town.

It's possible that I over did it, because no one, not even feral monkeys, would live like that.

Hopefully it paid off though, because at 4:30pm, I had to clear it up again. Sucks.

Is this legal?

Google says that I can be sued if I am seen to be disrupting a potential business opportunity.

Therefore, I would like to add that I am a dirty, dirty slob, and would've left cheerios on the floor and tiny pieces of ham on the front of the fridge regardless of the showing.

I'M JOKING.

I'M SERIOUS.

There, that should cover me.

What else is new?

My legs buckled on the the underground when I took a duffel bag to the back of the calf.

I watched a blind man beat up a woman with his walking stick as he tried to negotiate a tunnel.

I was hit by the top of a cello in the neck.

I kicked a pigeon into the side of a bin.

I overheard this conversation in Sainsburys between a customer and the shop assistant packing her bags:

Customer: You know, the last time I was in here, something awful happened to me.

Cashier: What happened?

Customer: Someone pushed in front of me, and I complained, and he punched me in the head.

Cashier: In the head? I'm sorry to hear about that.

Customer: Yes. He assaulted me.

Cashier: I'm sorry to hear about that.

Customer: Your security guard escorted him out, and then he came back, and took me to my car, in case I was attacked again.

Cashier: I'm sorry to hear about that.

Customer: It's an awful world, when you just come out to get some basics, and you get punched.

Cashier: Do you have a Nectar card?





Tuesday, March 10, 2015

At home with weebles

Had a fight with Fats & Fats over the weekend, a.k.a the New Zealand contingent of our lovely house share.

Well that's not a very good nickname, I hear you cry, certainly not good enough to be applied twice.

But guys, it's symbolic, of their never-ending simplicity, and the shape of their bodies.

I took a photo of them for you.

















Before you accuse me of being a bully, the blonde one is intensely racist, and the other Fats accepts her, racism and all.

They're leaving at the end of March.

I'm not sure if this knowledge has made them worse people - like there's only three weeks left of any repercussions, or if it's us. Either way, we are sparring every few days, and two arguments away from a knifing.

Ginger: Hey guys, can we please use one of the surfaces in here?

Blonde Fats: No.

Ginger: Are you using that laptop on the table?

Blonde Fats: Yes. And who uses a table for cutting food on. It's a fucking table.

Me: It's a fucking kitchen.

Other Fats: You can go near the sink.

Ginger: You are both pathetic.

We were getting really excited about the prospect of them leaving/dying. Until this email arrived:




More? More of them? I sent out an S.O.S to the others:

No one replied.

I'm on my own with this.

After years of trying to suppress my inner weird, I've got to find a way to let it all hang out.

Do you like my email owl photo? I think it conveys a mixture of shock and judgement.

I'll be very receptive to any ideas of sabotage that you can offer. I'm not really interested in ones that require a huge amount of set-up, because Wednesday is my pretend-to-be-a-writer-day, and I need as much time, looking at my laptop, and pretending to be a writer, as possible.

CHEERS xg