I'm going to apologise for this blog entry in advance. I've done some quality over-thinking in a sort of 'out of the box' kind of way and it has lead me into a bizarre and inappropriate direction.
Again, sorry.....
Basically I am absolutely stony broke at the moment. Depressingly broke in fact. I had somewhat of a tantrum this morning as I left the house, and yelled up to my Tidiness Nazi of a house mate that I may just have to become a prostitute.
I've said it in grumpy jest before but today, in a full on grumpy mood and driving to work, I started to over think the implications of the major life shift I'd so casually bandied about in conversation. How does one just become a prostitute any way? I reflected that I could just hang around the docks, only the local ferry workers will have only been at sea for half an hour. I'm guessing that this wouldn't therefore make any of them desperate enough to want to pay the likes of me.
...and how much would one charge any way?
I am a Stand Up so am hardly naive but I really don't know how much prostitutes charge and whether they have a going rate which adjusts to being down South. I mean, I'd expect to charge one thing for a bit of a fiddle and something completely different for something more, erm..... 'involved' but y'know, you've gotta be competitive within the market.
How would one carry out market research into the working operations of one's competition? I mean, I couldn't just go up to random blokes in the street and do a survey. I guess it would be even worse if I approached random women to ask if they were or had ever been a prostitute. I was talking to my 'mental health twin' work colleague about it and was strangely comforted when she said she had considered and worried about the same issues (we're so alike it's frightening, it really is....)
...actually, I have to say - my mental health twin work colleague horrified me recently by getting cured! There I was enjoying a bit of hypochondria expecting her to join in with stories of lying awake in the wee hours just waiting for death due to some random and bizarre head twinge or something but she didn't! She'd had CBT and had been taught to stop 'CATASTROPHISING' everything! How rude - the biggest part of my existence is made up of over thinking pretty much everything to one of two final ends - my death or eventual ruin. I am comfortable with these fears and actually once had a jolt when I realised I had nothing in my life to worry about.
...fortunately this only lasted for about 12 seconds before I remembered something.
So, back to becoming prostitutes. Mental Health Work Colleague (MHWC) said that she thought she'd be able to do something with the 'Yummy Mummy' type market. Being short, strange and a bit shit I reflected miserably that I'd have to try to appeal to a more specialised market. My former Gym Buddy work colleague (of the headless, 3 legged cat skeleton) said that I could advertise that I was new to the game and therefore 'clean'.
Erm, cheers....
I then added that as I hadn't been able to pull for bloody ages I could advertise the non-bucketness of my 'love tunnel'. The three of us nodded in agreement that this was a definite plus point when working out my potential prostitute tariff/advertising campaign.
With a face twisted with disgust I quietly asked MHWC whether we'd be expected to (cough) give oral sex to strangers. Leaning forward she contemplated the prospect
MHWC: ...well, if it was clean looking I might.
Me: Would we be allowed to spray it or wipe it over with anti-bac hand gel or anything?
MHWC: That'd sting it wouldn't it?
Me: Well you're the one with the boyfriend - can't you road test it with some and report back the results?
MHWC (uncertain): Erm......dunno really, I'm not sure he'd like it.
Me: Would we be expected to......y'know...
MHWC: What?
Me: Y'know!
MHWC (oblivious): No, what?
Me (whispering and with a traumatised expression): SWALLOW?
MHWC: I guess so, if that's what he wants. I suppose you charge extra for that
Me: Sounds like we need to design some sort of comprehensive menu or something. Is that what they do? I really don't get it. I mean, it's difficult isn't it? If some old ropey slag does all that for 10 quid, is anyone going to pay for my prime, sort of unwanted, practically healed up 'lady garden' facility? I keep it pretty neat but saying that, I did nick it shaving a few nights ago so it might look a bit damaged and scabby in parts...
MHWC: The only problem is, you'd have to talk to people and take your clothes off and we all know that those are two things you hate doing.
Me (lost in thought): Yeah, 'cause remember that time I had my own aromatherapy business that I closed down? That was because I didn't like people enough to touch them. I really don't like people that much and if my punter wanted to chat or touch me in any way I'd probably go a bit strange and get that appalled look on my face, a bit like the shrunken headed hunter in Beetlejuice. Me screaming, smacking his nob and running off would no doubt ruin his prossie experience and would prevent me from getting some extra dosh to see me through my current financially embarrassed state wouldn't it?
Former Gym Buddy: I guess you could just do some more gigs and make some cutbacks.
Me: .....
Sigh, how much do prossies charge any way? I'm still wondering. It seemed such a good idea when I was in a bad mood this morning. Hell, I even had my business logo planned. Of course, a big part of me suspects the punters just jump on and have a good bang. I don't think they'd appreciate me discussing my menu no matter how nicely set and printed it was. I guess they'd appreciate the feedback form even less.
Sketty (30 September - ?)isn’t a 17th Century English naval administrator or Member of Parliament. Furthermore, she has never met King Charles II or King James II. This may be due to both being dead at the time of her life. In fact, this isn’t so much a diary but the unedited spewings from the brain of one of the Century’s leading cretins. Some of it may develop into comedy unless I get to spend time in a lovely facility where someone will give me dinner.
Monday, 12 December 2011
Tuesday, 22 November 2011
DIE CAT DIE (The Tale of the Zombie Cat)!!!!
Dramatic title, eh? Thought you'd like it.
Gonna share a couple of stories related to cats today. The first is a cautionary tale and the other is bloody BRILLIANT in a horrible way but it happened to one of my colleagues and therefore it would be wrong of me not to share whilst laughing horribly behind her back.
Ok, first the cautionary tale: My advice to everyone is, even if you think it's dead, NEVER poke a cat with a stick near a main road and some potentially cat loving children. That's good advice - possibly the best advice you'll be given all day.
What happened? Well, a colleague and I had to attend a community event with representatives from the local authority and police. We were all sitting in a specially adapted vehicle with seats and a table awaiting the arrival of 'The Community'.
No bugger showed .
After a bit we were all a bit bored, bloated on tea and sick on biscuits. Oh yeah, how's THIS for hurtful - I ruefully told the gathered agencies that the last time I'd been to this area my beautiful 1971 VW Beetle had tried to kill me by randomly bursting into flames as I drove it. The police all laughed and advised that they'd 'just' been talking about it! I'd never met any of them before so they'd just been laughing about it in general without knowing that me, the poor driver, was about to show up. They bizarrely stopped laughing when I told them I'd had an anatomically correct skeleton dressed as Santa Claus in the vehicle at the time which I'd had to pull out. Laughing, I told them I'd been upsetting children by telling them Father Christmas was dead.
[SILENCE]
I'm sure that's not a crime. I thought it was hysterical - how can you NOT laugh at that; miserable bunch of bleeders.
Anyhoo, one of the guys told us that there was a cat in a blanket around the corner and it had been there for hours. My colleague and I went to have a look expecting to find a dead cat. I did sort of look for a stick - if there's the chance of finding anything dead you HAVE to poke it with a stick just so you can scream and run away (no, I don't know why that's important either). As we slowly approached the tatty looking thing it did stir and look up but it certainly did not appear healthy. I inched closer trying to display a facial expression which would reassure a potentially sick/dying cat. Clearly, my features didn't quite do it; the cat suddenly leapt into the air, across the car park and into the path of a speeding car. All I remember is the screaming of the child....
So, all we actually did for that community on this day was to force a child to watch it's beloved pet get killed horribly!
...Ah, I'm kidding - that was the FASTEST dying cat on 4 legs. He made it to the other side of the road by the skin of it's teeth.
Ok, here's the Zombie Cat story. It's both horrifying and brilliant at the same time.
A work colleague (and former gym buddy) shared this with me and it's sad so we must read and digest this next bit with dignified expressions on our faces, ok?
It starts off with 'Gym Buddy' (GB) and her daughter discovering that their beloved cat had been run down in the street. They went to collect him in a blanket and, crying, bought him home in readiness to bury in their garden. GB decided to dig the hole in the lawn so that the cat would be under the grass and in an area which would never be disturbed/dug up accidentally. They buried him deep.
Next morning, to their horror the cat was lying on the lawn covered in shit, with it's guts liberally scattered around and it's head totally missing!
[gag]
He was duly re-buried, deeper and with a large slab over the top.
...next day he was again on the lawn now both headless and with a leg missing.
GB put the cat back in his grave, poured bleach all over him (to mask any smell) and put THREE large concrete slabs over him.
It took a couple of days but the decomposing headless, three legged, bleach covered cat again reappeared on the lawn. This time my gym buddy had enough and decided that they would bag up this beloved former pet and put him in the incinerator.
When her son came home he prepared said incinerator and lit it. The flame shot up quicker than he expected which made him leap backwards
.....onto the dead cat.
Running around in horror, screaming like a shitty baby, the lad realised he'd never forget that squelching sensation for the rest of his life. They said a little prayer and stuck the cat in the incinerator hoping that this would finally be the end of the tale and that they would never again be faced with the zombie cat who would not stay buried!
After a few hours GB asked her son whether the deed was done.
.....turns out the incinerator wasn't hot enough. The family now have a headless three legged cat skeleton to dispose of.
Tuesday, 1 November 2011
Half Dead
Well, for the people who know me it's no secret that I've pretty much gone totally wrong. Some of them even know that I've done some stupid shit to myself in the process.
I'm talking specifically about the eating disorder here.
Now don't think this is going to be one of those (whingey voice) "I've got probbbbblems, I've got an eating disorder, I've had a terrible childhood/wasn't breast fed and now I over compensate by punishing myself with food" crappy blog posts.
Fuck that.
I've screwed myself up with my obsession, see-sawed between thin-ness\being a moose and had a bloody good time doing it. Of course, no one wants to be fat; it's the leprosy of the modern age, and so I've done some major shit to my body/system and FUCKED it over. I'd like to say I wouldn't change a thing but clearly finding a way to eat like a bastard/contribute to Third World hunger yet stay thin would be my ultimate goal.
Well, to cut a long and frankly boring story short. My digestion is fucked and I frequently puke when I lie down. Sexy....
For various reasons, I ended up being taken to Accident and Emergency on Sunday. It was here that I was given 2 bags of fluids and told that my kidneys were getting a bit pissed off. I related the story to my cousin 'Bakes' AKA my Sister from another Mother/my fellow 'Crash Test Brummie/the person I'm proud to share took it upon herself to punch a baked potato thus losing a fair chunk of skin and also felt the need to touch one of those electric fly killers which shot her across the room (a few days later she tried it again. I don't know whether she thought something different would happen but it didn't and she again ended up on the other side of the room. It's for reasons such as this that we really relate to each other). The conversation kinda went:
ME: ...yeah, and when the doctor told me about that, the Tidness Nazi and I had a proper Hollywood Feel Good moment.
BAKES: Really, what happened?
ME: Well, I was all wired up and with tears in my eyes I said that all this shit had to stop as I was killing myself. With tears in her eyes she said she had to stop drinking as it was killing her. We sort of hugged and made a pact that I was going to start eating healthily and she would stop drinking. We're going to the gym, start swimming, take the dog for long walks and basically stop harming ourselves. This was the wake up call I needed - that we BOTH needed.
BAKES: Cool - what are you doing now?
ME: ....eating all the Halloween sweets.
BAKES: ...and the Tidiness Nazi?
ME: Down the pub.
BAKES: Excellent. Any way, I was lying around yesterday and my legs started to hurt in a weird way. I became firmly convinced that I'd got deep vein thrombosis and bits of the clot were breaking off and getting into my system. I absolutely KNEW I was about to die!
ME: Faaaack, what did you do?
BAKES: Nothing.
(on the other end of the phone I was nodding in silent unity)
ME: Well, when I ended up back in A&E on Monday they put me on another drip and when the bag was finished they left it for a bit before attaching another one. I was just sort of sitting there when I noticed the fluid starting to come down the tube in my arm.
BAKES: Oh yeah?
ME: Yeah, and just before the new lot went through I reckoned I saw an air bubble in the tube. I was really worried that the bubble was heading quickly towards my blood stream, would travel up to my brain and I'd get basically cured of one thing and killed by a freak air bubble accident. I was absolutely convinced that I was about to gasp my last and I got a bit upset.
BAKES: Faaaack, what did you do?
ME: Nothing.
(again, I imagine she was just nodding her head in silent unity on the other end of the phone)
What I learned? It's not just me who has an inner arsehole (see previous entry) pre-warning of imminent death. Furthermore it's not just me who, despite overwhelming evidence, simply doesn't have the inclination or self preservation skills to act on this potentially pre-cognisant spiritual tip off. Who can be arsed?
Oh yeah. When I was potentially gasping my last just prior to my first trip to A&E I could hear a tinkling bell ringing. I became convinced it was the sound of the heavens opening in readiness to take me away. When it didn't happen I became paranoid that 'whomever' had a look down at me and decided I wasn't worthy, put their stinking bell away and fucked off. Cheers Heaven.
I'm talking specifically about the eating disorder here.
Now don't think this is going to be one of those (whingey voice) "I've got probbbbblems, I've got an eating disorder, I've had a terrible childhood/wasn't breast fed and now I over compensate by punishing myself with food" crappy blog posts.
Fuck that.
I've screwed myself up with my obsession, see-sawed between thin-ness\being a moose and had a bloody good time doing it. Of course, no one wants to be fat; it's the leprosy of the modern age, and so I've done some major shit to my body/system and FUCKED it over. I'd like to say I wouldn't change a thing but clearly finding a way to eat like a bastard/contribute to Third World hunger yet stay thin would be my ultimate goal.
Well, to cut a long and frankly boring story short. My digestion is fucked and I frequently puke when I lie down. Sexy....
For various reasons, I ended up being taken to Accident and Emergency on Sunday. It was here that I was given 2 bags of fluids and told that my kidneys were getting a bit pissed off. I related the story to my cousin 'Bakes' AKA my Sister from another Mother/my fellow 'Crash Test Brummie/the person I'm proud to share took it upon herself to punch a baked potato thus losing a fair chunk of skin and also felt the need to touch one of those electric fly killers which shot her across the room (a few days later she tried it again. I don't know whether she thought something different would happen but it didn't and she again ended up on the other side of the room. It's for reasons such as this that we really relate to each other). The conversation kinda went:
ME: ...yeah, and when the doctor told me about that, the Tidness Nazi and I had a proper Hollywood Feel Good moment.
BAKES: Really, what happened?
ME: Well, I was all wired up and with tears in my eyes I said that all this shit had to stop as I was killing myself. With tears in her eyes she said she had to stop drinking as it was killing her. We sort of hugged and made a pact that I was going to start eating healthily and she would stop drinking. We're going to the gym, start swimming, take the dog for long walks and basically stop harming ourselves. This was the wake up call I needed - that we BOTH needed.
BAKES: Cool - what are you doing now?
ME: ....eating all the Halloween sweets.
BAKES: ...and the Tidiness Nazi?
ME: Down the pub.
BAKES: Excellent. Any way, I was lying around yesterday and my legs started to hurt in a weird way. I became firmly convinced that I'd got deep vein thrombosis and bits of the clot were breaking off and getting into my system. I absolutely KNEW I was about to die!
ME: Faaaack, what did you do?
BAKES: Nothing.
(on the other end of the phone I was nodding in silent unity)
ME: Well, when I ended up back in A&E on Monday they put me on another drip and when the bag was finished they left it for a bit before attaching another one. I was just sort of sitting there when I noticed the fluid starting to come down the tube in my arm.
BAKES: Oh yeah?
ME: Yeah, and just before the new lot went through I reckoned I saw an air bubble in the tube. I was really worried that the bubble was heading quickly towards my blood stream, would travel up to my brain and I'd get basically cured of one thing and killed by a freak air bubble accident. I was absolutely convinced that I was about to gasp my last and I got a bit upset.
BAKES: Faaaack, what did you do?
ME: Nothing.
(again, I imagine she was just nodding her head in silent unity on the other end of the phone)
What I learned? It's not just me who has an inner arsehole (see previous entry) pre-warning of imminent death. Furthermore it's not just me who, despite overwhelming evidence, simply doesn't have the inclination or self preservation skills to act on this potentially pre-cognisant spiritual tip off. Who can be arsed?
Oh yeah. When I was potentially gasping my last just prior to my first trip to A&E I could hear a tinkling bell ringing. I became convinced it was the sound of the heavens opening in readiness to take me away. When it didn't happen I became paranoid that 'whomever' had a look down at me and decided I wasn't worthy, put their stinking bell away and fucked off. Cheers Heaven.
Sunday, 28 August 2011
My Inner Arsehole
I've mentioned it before, I'm mentioning it now and no doubt I'll be mentioning it again in the future; I have an incredibly unhelpful and frankly unpleasant inner voice/voice of my sub-conscience/inner arsehole. In fact, a lot of the time I think it purposefully works to undermine me in an attempt to turn me into some sort of mental cripple. I came to realise that rather than leave the school yard bullies behind, I've got one living inside my own head!
Fer chrissake......
On the whole though, I've learned to ignore my inner arsehole and just carry on with my head held high. When I was young it told me that everyone hated me and advised me to set traps and to hide places in order to catch people out!
....yeah, I know.
Listening to this arsehole, I even shut myself in a wardrobe whilst on a school trip. The wardrobe was in a dorm of 2 bunk beds and I asked one of my 3 room mates to tempt the other two in and then try to persuade them to start slagging me off - WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING? What the hell must SHE have thought? Turns out, disappointingly, they didn't have anything bad to say about me - I had planned to jump out of the wardrobe dramatically shouting 'A-HA, I HEARD EVERY LAST WORD YOU SAID!' when in fact, I had to slink out as if it was totally normal for me to have been standing silently in a wardrobe for an hour. The other thing I learned was, it is really difficult to shut a wardrobe door from the inside. You have to try and get some pulling speed and then bring your fingers in quickly. Unfortunately I didn't get my thumb in quick enough and sort of split the skin (yuck!) so not only was I standing in a wardrobe for an hour, I was standing in a wardrobe in pain and covered in blood. Fucking mental and that's what happens when you have an inner arsehole who you listen to.
I tell you, my inner arsehole was really pissed off when I came to the conclusion that I couldn't give a shit what people thought of me and if they shunned me it actually made life easier and more pleasant.
My arsehole then tried to tell me that monsters were a reality and that when I was out late at night I shouldn't be scared of murderers or rapists, I should fear the unknown and ancient evil.
....again, I know, I know....
My inner arsehole, in more recent years, has concentrated on telling me that every last twinge, ache, strange mark or pain equals my untimely and ultimately painful death. Yep, hypochondria is the thing I am battling the most at the moment. Y'wanna hear what this bastard has been saying to me?
Inner Arsehole (I.A.): Hmmmmmmm, you've had that painful gum thing going on for a few days now haven't you?
Me: Yeah, so what?
I.A.: Well, you've probably got some kind of infection which means that all your teeth will need to be pulled out from that side of your head. It's that or jaw cancer. Yeah, it's probably jaw cancer and they'll not only have to pull all your teeth but also remove that side of your jaw. You'll have to have your face reconstructed and it'll never look the same. You'll be a social pariah and you'll never be able to do stand up or work where people need to look at you again. You could do stand up with a sort of Phantom of the Opera mask thing on your face only you probably won't be able to speak properly so no one will understand you. You'll just have to concentrate on comedy writing and you know you procrastinate so rarely get anything serious written. You are FUCKED girl.
Me: Oh fucking hell......
I.A.: Yeah, well I'm only trying to prepare you. Oh yeah, I meant to mention your eyes too...
Me: Oh God, don't mention my eyes. It's the contact lens thing isn't it? You're going to say something about the contact lens thing aren't you?
I.A.: I'm only trying to be helpful and prepare you for the worst. That weird thing that keeps happening to your contact lenses - the thing where you blink and suddenly you can't see out of one any more? That deposit that just suddenly forms? The one that looks like an opaque snowflake across the lens? Well, clearly that's calcium and your eyes are just over producing it. You've got CALCIFIED EYES lady. You are going to wake up one day and discover you've lost your sight. You'll have some freaky yellow covering over them and it'll frighten people who see you.
Me: Yeah, but 'Bakes' (my sister from another mother/my cousin) works at the University Optician Training place and the lecturer type person she spoke to didn't think it was anything serious.
I.A.: So, it's a new disease is it? Perhaps they'll name it after you. Oh yeah, I meant to mention that other thing I've been niggling at you about too...
Me: The dog.
I.A.: You got it!
Me: So, the dog has randomly started to follow me around and has been uncommonly loving and clingy to me for the past few days. So what, what can you POSSIBLY make out of that Inner Arsehole?
I.A.: Dogs know y'know. They KNOW!
Me: Fuck off, Inner Arsehole. You can't get me on THIS one....
I.A.: Ok then, ignore the fact that dogs can SMELL CANCER!
Me: Noooooooo.......
I.A.: The dog is saying her goodbyes to you Lady, you've had it. Wouldn't be surprised if yours isn't one of those stories you hear about when someone suddenly feels ill and they're dead within 2 weeks. Just thought I'd mention it.
Me: I HATE you Inner Arsehole. There's a big part of me that pays no attention to the poison you spread and 'sides, most cancers can be easily treated and cured nowadays!
I.A.: ...but not yours and there's always that little part of you which quietly believes me and that's what makes my day. Right, I'm off now to tell your 'Mental Health' work sistah/colleague that she's got arm cancer, Wisdom Tooth cancer and the BIG disease which we cannot name....
Y'know, I even 'heard' the newspaper report in my head which heralded the Tidiness Nazi and my untimely deaths in a car crash today. I then thought about whether any of my internet based friends would come and visit me in hospital whilst I lay in the inevitable coma I'll find myself in (should I survive). I started to worry that people will visit too soon and I won't have lost any weight from only being fed via a drip. Hell, I need to be looking pale and tragic at this point, not fat and bloated. I imagine myself to look like a Disney princess in my hospital bed. Hey, I wonder if someone could get Aidan Turner from Being Human to come and talk to me - once I'd lost some weight and before my muscles go a bit atrophied of course. It'd just be my luck that he'll fall hopelessly in love with me and I won't have a bleedin' clue. Great innit? The reality is, he'd have to have some weird fetish for short, strange, crap haired comedians to fall for me. Oh yeah, talking about hair - mine is really curly and tangles really easily. If the nurses brush my hair for the visit I'll have a dreadful frizzy 'fro thing. Hang on - here's my coma contingency plan
Coma Contingency Plan:
Fer chrissake......
On the whole though, I've learned to ignore my inner arsehole and just carry on with my head held high. When I was young it told me that everyone hated me and advised me to set traps and to hide places in order to catch people out!
....yeah, I know.
Listening to this arsehole, I even shut myself in a wardrobe whilst on a school trip. The wardrobe was in a dorm of 2 bunk beds and I asked one of my 3 room mates to tempt the other two in and then try to persuade them to start slagging me off - WHAT THE HELL WAS I THINKING? What the hell must SHE have thought? Turns out, disappointingly, they didn't have anything bad to say about me - I had planned to jump out of the wardrobe dramatically shouting 'A-HA, I HEARD EVERY LAST WORD YOU SAID!' when in fact, I had to slink out as if it was totally normal for me to have been standing silently in a wardrobe for an hour. The other thing I learned was, it is really difficult to shut a wardrobe door from the inside. You have to try and get some pulling speed and then bring your fingers in quickly. Unfortunately I didn't get my thumb in quick enough and sort of split the skin (yuck!) so not only was I standing in a wardrobe for an hour, I was standing in a wardrobe in pain and covered in blood. Fucking mental and that's what happens when you have an inner arsehole who you listen to.
I tell you, my inner arsehole was really pissed off when I came to the conclusion that I couldn't give a shit what people thought of me and if they shunned me it actually made life easier and more pleasant.
My arsehole then tried to tell me that monsters were a reality and that when I was out late at night I shouldn't be scared of murderers or rapists, I should fear the unknown and ancient evil.
....again, I know, I know....
My inner arsehole, in more recent years, has concentrated on telling me that every last twinge, ache, strange mark or pain equals my untimely and ultimately painful death. Yep, hypochondria is the thing I am battling the most at the moment. Y'wanna hear what this bastard has been saying to me?
Inner Arsehole (I.A.): Hmmmmmmm, you've had that painful gum thing going on for a few days now haven't you?
Me: Yeah, so what?
I.A.: Well, you've probably got some kind of infection which means that all your teeth will need to be pulled out from that side of your head. It's that or jaw cancer. Yeah, it's probably jaw cancer and they'll not only have to pull all your teeth but also remove that side of your jaw. You'll have to have your face reconstructed and it'll never look the same. You'll be a social pariah and you'll never be able to do stand up or work where people need to look at you again. You could do stand up with a sort of Phantom of the Opera mask thing on your face only you probably won't be able to speak properly so no one will understand you. You'll just have to concentrate on comedy writing and you know you procrastinate so rarely get anything serious written. You are FUCKED girl.
Me: Oh fucking hell......
I.A.: Yeah, well I'm only trying to prepare you. Oh yeah, I meant to mention your eyes too...
Me: Oh God, don't mention my eyes. It's the contact lens thing isn't it? You're going to say something about the contact lens thing aren't you?
I.A.: I'm only trying to be helpful and prepare you for the worst. That weird thing that keeps happening to your contact lenses - the thing where you blink and suddenly you can't see out of one any more? That deposit that just suddenly forms? The one that looks like an opaque snowflake across the lens? Well, clearly that's calcium and your eyes are just over producing it. You've got CALCIFIED EYES lady. You are going to wake up one day and discover you've lost your sight. You'll have some freaky yellow covering over them and it'll frighten people who see you.
Me: Yeah, but 'Bakes' (my sister from another mother/my cousin) works at the University Optician Training place and the lecturer type person she spoke to didn't think it was anything serious.
I.A.: So, it's a new disease is it? Perhaps they'll name it after you. Oh yeah, I meant to mention that other thing I've been niggling at you about too...
Me: The dog.
I.A.: You got it!
Me: So, the dog has randomly started to follow me around and has been uncommonly loving and clingy to me for the past few days. So what, what can you POSSIBLY make out of that Inner Arsehole?
I.A.: Dogs know y'know. They KNOW!
Me: Fuck off, Inner Arsehole. You can't get me on THIS one....
I.A.: Ok then, ignore the fact that dogs can SMELL CANCER!
Me: Noooooooo.......
I.A.: The dog is saying her goodbyes to you Lady, you've had it. Wouldn't be surprised if yours isn't one of those stories you hear about when someone suddenly feels ill and they're dead within 2 weeks. Just thought I'd mention it.
Me: I HATE you Inner Arsehole. There's a big part of me that pays no attention to the poison you spread and 'sides, most cancers can be easily treated and cured nowadays!
I.A.: ...but not yours and there's always that little part of you which quietly believes me and that's what makes my day. Right, I'm off now to tell your 'Mental Health' work sistah/colleague that she's got arm cancer, Wisdom Tooth cancer and the BIG disease which we cannot name....
Y'know, I even 'heard' the newspaper report in my head which heralded the Tidiness Nazi and my untimely deaths in a car crash today. I then thought about whether any of my internet based friends would come and visit me in hospital whilst I lay in the inevitable coma I'll find myself in (should I survive). I started to worry that people will visit too soon and I won't have lost any weight from only being fed via a drip. Hell, I need to be looking pale and tragic at this point, not fat and bloated. I imagine myself to look like a Disney princess in my hospital bed. Hey, I wonder if someone could get Aidan Turner from Being Human to come and talk to me - once I'd lost some weight and before my muscles go a bit atrophied of course. It'd just be my luck that he'll fall hopelessly in love with me and I won't have a bleedin' clue. Great innit? The reality is, he'd have to have some weird fetish for short, strange, crap haired comedians to fall for me. Oh yeah, talking about hair - mine is really curly and tangles really easily. If the nurses brush my hair for the visit I'll have a dreadful frizzy 'fro thing. Hang on - here's my coma contingency plan
Coma Contingency Plan:
- Ensure nurses don't brush my hair when it's dry. It needs to be washed, heavily conditioned, given a quick spray of Frizz Ease and then left to dry naturally before being teased into shape with the fingers. Oh God - the NHS would NEVER do that. They wouldn't SHAVE it off would they? I'd look like a frickin' biker.
- MEN - DO NOT READ THE NEXT POINT! Sometimes, us ladies get a few stray facial hairs which need plucking out. Please, someone check me over and fix my eyebrows before Aidan shows up. If you can't get Aidan, Alex Zane would be my next choice; he'll probably be easier to get too as Aidan is in New Zealand filming The Hobbit. Any way, what I'm saying is, can someone make sure I don't have a goddam BEARD when either of these attractive young men show up to try and wake me from my coma please? No one wants to turn a handsome man gay after the terrifying realisation that women could be quite so repulsive.
- Could someone also ensure I don't have hairy pits or legs and perhaps put me in my favourite Cookie Monster underpants please? Whilst they've never proved it to me yet, I like to think of them as my lucky pants.
- Ensure I don't have breath which smells like I've been eating shit all day.
That should do it. Thanks guys. I feel better now.
UPDATE: ALEX ZANE, VIA TWITTER, HAS AGREED TO COME AND TALK ME OUT OF A COMA IF NECESSARY. HE SOUNDED RATHER SURPRISED BUT HAS INDEED AGREED. I LOVE IT WHEN A PLAN COMES TOGETHER!
UPDATE: ALEX ZANE, VIA TWITTER, HAS AGREED TO COME AND TALK ME OUT OF A COMA IF NECESSARY. HE SOUNDED RATHER SURPRISED BUT HAS INDEED AGREED. I LOVE IT WHEN A PLAN COMES TOGETHER!
Saturday, 20 August 2011
The Fly
I tried on sunglasses today. It didn't go well; I just ended up looking like The Fly so I guess I'm going to have to stick with my old ones which makes me look like one of the Blues Brothers and that look hasn't been acceptable since the 80's. Damn me and my stupid face...
So, talking about The Fly, the Tidiness Nazi told me the horrifying story of a fly she heard buzzing hysterically which had been caught up in a spider web at the lighthouse she works at. I'd already had thoughts of flies in my mind from the sunglasses thing but now I was thinking about THE FLY - Brundlefly himself.
Oh, she couldn't reach the high window to save the aforementioned hysterical fly and by the time she'd found a towel to flick up he/she had fallen silent by the way. No doubt it was victim to a spider's venom (shudder) unless it had fainted. Can a fly faint?
Y'know, my friend Bison is a weirdo - I made a random fly type comment a few months ago and he quickly and confidentially shared his knowledge on how one would sex a fly (for those emergency fly sexing situations no doubt). Who the hell knows how to sex a fly and why would you share this knowledge with a girl? I KNOW now know how to sex a fly; I should stick it on my CV. That's knowledge I could do without I tell you! I guess ol' Bison has gone past the trying to be sexy and impressing people stage. Perhaps he thought this WOULD impress me. Most men flex their muscles, give you 'the look' or charm you by trying to be cute. Not Bison though, oh no.
He can sex Damsel flies too.
He also likes taking photos of insects having sex. In fact, my pal Bison is the foremost insect pornographer of his age.
I love my friends
(mostly)
So, back to Brundlefly. When the Tidiness Nazi told me the story of the hysterical fly it suddenly reminded me of the original 1958 version of The Fly and that horrifying scene at the end with the bloke's head on the fly's body trapped in the web. Stuck with me for years that did. Of course, I ended up in a Fly reverie and I got lost in thought longer than one should thinking about what it would be like to be me but on a fly's body.
Oh God.
I'd be phobic of myself for a start. Can you imagine still having your own thoughts and looking like you facially but having the body of a fly. At least I wouldn't have to worry about putting on make up. I'd have no opposable thumbs for a start but hell, I'd still have the same face and it looks pale and I have dark circles around my eyes without make up. I'd desperately want to use some concealer, mascara and a bit of lippy but then again, I'd have the fucking body of a fly so no one would care about my facial blemishes. I guess I'd have more on my mind really....
I guess though, in an emergency, I'd be able to seek a lipstick without it's lid on and fly at high speed into the thing hoping it'd get on my lips. Shit, I've made myself laugh now, how funny would the end of the film be if the guy who saw the fly stuck in the web shouting 'help me' did a double take 'cause the fly had not only my face but one of those crazy woman make up faces on it. Y'know the type; a diagonal smear of pink lipstick over crooked lips and 2 splashes of electric blue eye shadow over the eyes. Then again, if I'd flown head first into lipstick I'd look ridiculous. I'd look ridiculous any way with my tangled hair and hairy fly body.
I'd be able to fly about but this would be a small compensation for being a fucking fly.
Hey, I'd be a fly but without the huge field of vision. I'd be screwed wouldn't I. I also wouldn't be able to get a fish pedicure. I'd LOVE a fish pedicure.
All joking aside though, it'd be awful to be mainly fly. Flies don't have necks do they? Our heads are the wrong shape for a fly body and if, during the 'fly-erisation' process thing I became a neckless fly I'd be even more screwed. No great eye vision and no neck to turn around and look over my shoulder. I guess flies don't have shoulders. Anything could creep up and potentially eat the shit out of me. I'd end up as just indigestible bits left in a web; a lone wing and a leg. No one wants THAT!
That does it. If any scientists expect me to get into an experimental transportation device accidentally with a fly they can fuck off and that's my final word on the matter.
I'm tired.
So, talking about The Fly, the Tidiness Nazi told me the horrifying story of a fly she heard buzzing hysterically which had been caught up in a spider web at the lighthouse she works at. I'd already had thoughts of flies in my mind from the sunglasses thing but now I was thinking about THE FLY - Brundlefly himself.
Oh, she couldn't reach the high window to save the aforementioned hysterical fly and by the time she'd found a towel to flick up he/she had fallen silent by the way. No doubt it was victim to a spider's venom (shudder) unless it had fainted. Can a fly faint?
Y'know, my friend Bison is a weirdo - I made a random fly type comment a few months ago and he quickly and confidentially shared his knowledge on how one would sex a fly (for those emergency fly sexing situations no doubt). Who the hell knows how to sex a fly and why would you share this knowledge with a girl? I KNOW now know how to sex a fly; I should stick it on my CV. That's knowledge I could do without I tell you! I guess ol' Bison has gone past the trying to be sexy and impressing people stage. Perhaps he thought this WOULD impress me. Most men flex their muscles, give you 'the look' or charm you by trying to be cute. Not Bison though, oh no.
He can sex Damsel flies too.
He also likes taking photos of insects having sex. In fact, my pal Bison is the foremost insect pornographer of his age.
I love my friends
(mostly)
So, back to Brundlefly. When the Tidiness Nazi told me the story of the hysterical fly it suddenly reminded me of the original 1958 version of The Fly and that horrifying scene at the end with the bloke's head on the fly's body trapped in the web. Stuck with me for years that did. Of course, I ended up in a Fly reverie and I got lost in thought longer than one should thinking about what it would be like to be me but on a fly's body.
Oh God.
I'd be phobic of myself for a start. Can you imagine still having your own thoughts and looking like you facially but having the body of a fly. At least I wouldn't have to worry about putting on make up. I'd have no opposable thumbs for a start but hell, I'd still have the same face and it looks pale and I have dark circles around my eyes without make up. I'd desperately want to use some concealer, mascara and a bit of lippy but then again, I'd have the fucking body of a fly so no one would care about my facial blemishes. I guess I'd have more on my mind really....
I guess though, in an emergency, I'd be able to seek a lipstick without it's lid on and fly at high speed into the thing hoping it'd get on my lips. Shit, I've made myself laugh now, how funny would the end of the film be if the guy who saw the fly stuck in the web shouting 'help me' did a double take 'cause the fly had not only my face but one of those crazy woman make up faces on it. Y'know the type; a diagonal smear of pink lipstick over crooked lips and 2 splashes of electric blue eye shadow over the eyes. Then again, if I'd flown head first into lipstick I'd look ridiculous. I'd look ridiculous any way with my tangled hair and hairy fly body.
I'd be able to fly about but this would be a small compensation for being a fucking fly.
Hey, I'd be a fly but without the huge field of vision. I'd be screwed wouldn't I. I also wouldn't be able to get a fish pedicure. I'd LOVE a fish pedicure.
All joking aside though, it'd be awful to be mainly fly. Flies don't have necks do they? Our heads are the wrong shape for a fly body and if, during the 'fly-erisation' process thing I became a neckless fly I'd be even more screwed. No great eye vision and no neck to turn around and look over my shoulder. I guess flies don't have shoulders. Anything could creep up and potentially eat the shit out of me. I'd end up as just indigestible bits left in a web; a lone wing and a leg. No one wants THAT!
That does it. If any scientists expect me to get into an experimental transportation device accidentally with a fly they can fuck off and that's my final word on the matter.
I'm tired.
Tuesday, 16 August 2011
The Joy & Misery of being Winged
Y'know I've mentioned my 'mental health' work colleague (MHWC); the one who shares the same neuroses as me? Well, to be fair, I work in an office of crazies. The only one who has genuinely been certified as being a bit nuts looked on and shook her head ruefully as we discussed our horror at one day being just 'gone'. I'd also asked MHWC how her suspected arm cancer was doing as she hadn't moaned about it for weeks.
She then blamed me for reminding her and the sudden subsequent re-emergence of the 'disease'.
Of course, all this came after the enquiry about what the symptoms of scurvy were. At least I've only got some kind of suspected neck sinew tightening disease which they might name after me, tooth ache and soul burning mortification still going on.
Y'know, I'm surprised that I didn't experience spontaneous human combustion after that thing that happened last Thursday; my face has been burning deeply and brightly ever since. Y'know, had I combusted, all that would have been left of me would be half a leg with a slipper on it and a zimmer frame. I don't know why, but the photos of people who've spontaneously burst into flames all seem to suggest that they just end up as half a be-slippered leg and zimmer frame combo...
Y'know, I'm surprised that I didn't experience spontaneous human combustion after that thing that happened last Thursday; my face has been burning deeply and brightly ever since. Y'know, had I combusted, all that would have been left of me would be half a leg with a slipper on it and a zimmer frame. I don't know why, but the photos of people who've spontaneously burst into flames all seem to suggest that they just end up as half a be-slippered leg and zimmer frame combo...
...but yeah, I returned to a thought I often have which is how wonderful it would be to have wings.
Unfortunately, I've learned that there are stages of madness I have to endure whenever I get a cool thought.
Stage One: Smiling/nice thought: My daydream starts off with me thinking of the joy at being able to fly everywhere.
... but then a troubling thought comes into play.
How does one position oneself when flying; the traditional stretched out, straight arm with a fist leading the way stance?
Bollocks, I know I wouldn't be bothered to do that!
...and let's face it, you'd look a right sodding nob in your work clothes - not sparkly or superhero-ey in any way, in a Superman pose flying along. I'm a lazy git and will it take more effort to reach height? I won't be bothered to put in much effort in so I guess I'll end up flying at about 3ft off the ground, not stiff in any way and therefore with my shoes dragging along the floor and with my arms just flopped in whatever position gravity leaves 'em.
Stage Two: A bit bloody concerned, actually: I cried when I had to go to the gym (voluntarily) so what would it be like having to fly? I don't particularly enjoy exercise and so would I be whining that my wings ached all the time?
Would I be flying along weeping and getting lower and lower until I just hit the deck?
What about the effort of going up stairs and needing to get the coordination right so I didn't bang my face up every bloody step or hit the back of my head on the ceiling? I then started to worry about my clothes. Does EVERYONE suddenly have wings or just me? Where would I get clothes with wing holes cut out? Nothing would look right would they? Wear massive, baggy things to cover them up which renders them totally useless or find something with massive holes in so they poke out properly? OH MY GOD, don't say I'd have to be nekkid to fly about. Think about gravity and the hang! My face'd probably look like Deputy Dawg from below so god only knows what everything else would look like. I'd have to strategically place bulldog clips around my body. I'd be the miserablest looking flying fucker in the history of ever.
Stage Three: The Horror of it all: Shit, what if the wings aren't feathered but are like.......INSECT WINGS! I'd be in a constant state of horror and phobic madness screaming like Homer Simpson when he found that dead body.
...I recognise that I think too much.
Finally, this is supposed to be a diary to rival that of Samuel Pepys. I wonder if he obsessed about having horrible insect wings (can they rip?) Clearly my diary is on the shit side compared to his, mainly because I forgot to diarise the recent riots all over the place. Erm, so yeah, RIOTS........ALL OVER THE PLACE! People are saying it's a symptom of 'Broken Britain'. Not all people, just some people. The police are pissed off because that nobber Cameron is bringing in an American to tell 'em what they should be doing. I'm pissed off because officially I am a Criminologist (...and a comedian. A comedy criminologist?) and I can't be bothered to write a stinging piece on the situation. Hell, I can't even be bothered to be stiff bodied when I fly.
I'm rubbish
Saturday, 13 August 2011
Another Humiliating Experience
This happened Thursday just gone and well, I've only just been able to gather the mental strength to talk about it. When 'the thing' happened I didn't mention anything to anyone for the first few hours as I was traumatised and mentally scarred from the whole situation; a situation which has led me further towards the realisation that I am losing my ability to interact with the human race. I KNEW hermitude was the only way to go.
Before I tell you, I have to share another phenomena I've discovered. One that I've realised happens too often when I'm trying to share humiliation with people:
SCENARIO ONE - On phone to my Mother
Me: Oh God Mom, I've had a terrible experience today, I.....
Mom: ...You've shit yourself?
Me: No, I haven't bloody shit myself, I....
Mom: You've farted! You farted in front of someone!
Me: NO, I haven't farted in front of anyone
Mom: (sounding more than just mildly disappointed): Oh, go one then. What did you do?
Scenario Two: At home with Tidiness Nazi Housemate/Best pal:
Me: Oh my God, you'll never believe what I did today
Tidiness Nazi: (sounding mortified): Oh God, you didn't shit yourself did you?
Scenario Three: In Office to 'Mental Health Work Colleague':
Me: I've gotta tell you what happened yesterday
Mental Health Work Colleague: You didn't shit yourself again did you?
?
Again!
No, for everyone who doesn't automatically think I regularly shit my pants.......oh hang on, before we go on, and on the subject of pants, I have to say that I have been recently disturbed by the fact that I have TWICE suffered the discomfort of pants up my backside (hungry arse syndrome I believe it's called) with pants normally thoroughly comfortable. Upon a visit to the ladies powder room (us ladies don't have bodily functions y'know; we emit a perfumed powder) I discovered I'd put my pants on back to front. TWICE! Now, I like to have comfortable nethers, it's all part of having a happy day, so this recent development is somewhat disturbing. Can one just develop 'Pant Dyslexia' or something? In my defence, I have an 'interesting pants' obsession and will just buy pants that vaguely amuse me. The 2 pairs I seemed to have difficulty with had a cartoon print going all the way around so perhaps it's nothing more than sloppy dressing during the misery that is morning. The pants in question? A Wonder Woman pair and a Superman pair. I actually threw the Superman pair away 'cause once I'd turned them around they were still uncomfortable - crotch part not wide enough. Like I say - one HAS to have comfortable nethers to make it through the misery that is the working day.
So, back to the story. Since I broke my traumatised silence I have told EVERYONE I have met and they have all cringed - even the Capital Radio breakfast show guys. I think the reason I have spilled my guts so much is that I am seeking someone - ANYONE who will offer comfort and say that it wasn't THAT bad.
Thus far, no one has.
Right, here we go. On Thursday I had cause to go out and deal with something accompanied by a uniformed police officer. We vaguely know each other and so there was a bit of light hearted banter in the police car and he's a nice bloke. Once the issue was dealt with we returned to the police station and as we pulled up he got another shout to go out and deal with something else. Things sort of went like this:
PC: Oh, that's a shame; I was going to invite you into the nick for coffee and some cake.
Me: (gutted to be missing out on cake): Oh maaaan, cake? You've got cake? In these austere times you've got cake in there? That would have been lovely too. I could just go some cake.
We both then walked around to the back of the police car (now parked in the police station car park) and at this point, I don't really know what happened. Perhaps he took an extra step towards me, I dunno, but I was suddenly gripped with the belief that he was coming in to HUG me? As you may already know, I have a bit of a fear of human contact and do my best to avoid all humans (and pets actually) as much as possible. I felt my face flash between horror and 'oh my God, this is really happening!' and made the unconscious decision to act like a proper human being rather than a broken, mentally damaged fool, and so I stiffly stepped towards him with my arms out to receive the aforementioned hug.
At this point HE looked horrified and I realised with blood draining horror that HE WASN'T GOING TO HUG ME AT ALL!!!!!!
Clearly the guy now felt obliged to hug this moronic Brummie short-arse of a girl with shit hair which had been recently dyed a bizarre colour. FAAAAAACK. He went in to receive the hug with a combined look of shock and confusion on his face (we were both at work and this is not how one says goodbye after a professional meeting!). God only knows what the PCSO in the van thought OR said to him once back in the nick.
This was the stiffest, most uncomfortable hug of my entire life. You think that's the worst bit? You'd be wrong. In his horror, he kinda turned his face towards me a bit. On reflection, this was probably for something of an answer as to why I was demanding a hug from him after a simple joint visit somewhere, but I was in' total 'human contact phobia' mode and my phobic brain, upon seeing his face turn towards mine screamed 'OH MY GOD, HE'S GOING IN FOR THE CHEEK KISS TOO!" at me.
Oh god, I can barely type this any more.
I'll type it quick
....I started to pucker up to kiss him back!
Luckily, he managed an uncomfortable cheek bump instead. What must he think of me? Perhaps he thinks I'm a raging nympho or that I was coming on to him? How can one explain to a person that they are losing their human social skills and had been overcome with the thought of cake when they threw themselves into their arms and sort of demanded a kiss? Oh God, I keep coming over all cold when I think about it. I've had humiliations in the past, bloody massive ones but at least they've been pretty private and mostly anonymous. This one was with a great big copper in uniform with whom I often have to work. He had to bend over to hug me too 'cause I'm like some sort of sub-normal Hobbit. Y'think Samwise Gamgee was a bit of a moron. Meet me, his idiot sister.
Before I tell you, I have to share another phenomena I've discovered. One that I've realised happens too often when I'm trying to share humiliation with people:
SCENARIO ONE - On phone to my Mother
Me: Oh God Mom, I've had a terrible experience today, I.....
Mom: ...You've shit yourself?
Me: No, I haven't bloody shit myself, I....
Mom: You've farted! You farted in front of someone!
Me: NO, I haven't farted in front of anyone
Mom: (sounding more than just mildly disappointed): Oh, go one then. What did you do?
Scenario Two: At home with Tidiness Nazi Housemate/Best pal:
Me: Oh my God, you'll never believe what I did today
Tidiness Nazi: (sounding mortified): Oh God, you didn't shit yourself did you?
Scenario Three: In Office to 'Mental Health Work Colleague':
Me: I've gotta tell you what happened yesterday
Mental Health Work Colleague: You didn't shit yourself again did you?
?
Again!
No, for everyone who doesn't automatically think I regularly shit my pants.......oh hang on, before we go on, and on the subject of pants, I have to say that I have been recently disturbed by the fact that I have TWICE suffered the discomfort of pants up my backside (hungry arse syndrome I believe it's called) with pants normally thoroughly comfortable. Upon a visit to the ladies powder room (us ladies don't have bodily functions y'know; we emit a perfumed powder) I discovered I'd put my pants on back to front. TWICE! Now, I like to have comfortable nethers, it's all part of having a happy day, so this recent development is somewhat disturbing. Can one just develop 'Pant Dyslexia' or something? In my defence, I have an 'interesting pants' obsession and will just buy pants that vaguely amuse me. The 2 pairs I seemed to have difficulty with had a cartoon print going all the way around so perhaps it's nothing more than sloppy dressing during the misery that is morning. The pants in question? A Wonder Woman pair and a Superman pair. I actually threw the Superman pair away 'cause once I'd turned them around they were still uncomfortable - crotch part not wide enough. Like I say - one HAS to have comfortable nethers to make it through the misery that is the working day.
So, back to the story. Since I broke my traumatised silence I have told EVERYONE I have met and they have all cringed - even the Capital Radio breakfast show guys. I think the reason I have spilled my guts so much is that I am seeking someone - ANYONE who will offer comfort and say that it wasn't THAT bad.
Thus far, no one has.
Right, here we go. On Thursday I had cause to go out and deal with something accompanied by a uniformed police officer. We vaguely know each other and so there was a bit of light hearted banter in the police car and he's a nice bloke. Once the issue was dealt with we returned to the police station and as we pulled up he got another shout to go out and deal with something else. Things sort of went like this:
PC: Oh, that's a shame; I was going to invite you into the nick for coffee and some cake.
Me: (gutted to be missing out on cake): Oh maaaan, cake? You've got cake? In these austere times you've got cake in there? That would have been lovely too. I could just go some cake.
We both then walked around to the back of the police car (now parked in the police station car park) and at this point, I don't really know what happened. Perhaps he took an extra step towards me, I dunno, but I was suddenly gripped with the belief that he was coming in to HUG me? As you may already know, I have a bit of a fear of human contact and do my best to avoid all humans (and pets actually) as much as possible. I felt my face flash between horror and 'oh my God, this is really happening!' and made the unconscious decision to act like a proper human being rather than a broken, mentally damaged fool, and so I stiffly stepped towards him with my arms out to receive the aforementioned hug.
At this point HE looked horrified and I realised with blood draining horror that HE WASN'T GOING TO HUG ME AT ALL!!!!!!
Clearly the guy now felt obliged to hug this moronic Brummie short-arse of a girl with shit hair which had been recently dyed a bizarre colour. FAAAAAACK. He went in to receive the hug with a combined look of shock and confusion on his face (we were both at work and this is not how one says goodbye after a professional meeting!). God only knows what the PCSO in the van thought OR said to him once back in the nick.
This was the stiffest, most uncomfortable hug of my entire life. You think that's the worst bit? You'd be wrong. In his horror, he kinda turned his face towards me a bit. On reflection, this was probably for something of an answer as to why I was demanding a hug from him after a simple joint visit somewhere, but I was in' total 'human contact phobia' mode and my phobic brain, upon seeing his face turn towards mine screamed 'OH MY GOD, HE'S GOING IN FOR THE CHEEK KISS TOO!" at me.
Oh god, I can barely type this any more.
I'll type it quick
....I started to pucker up to kiss him back!
Luckily, he managed an uncomfortable cheek bump instead. What must he think of me? Perhaps he thinks I'm a raging nympho or that I was coming on to him? How can one explain to a person that they are losing their human social skills and had been overcome with the thought of cake when they threw themselves into their arms and sort of demanded a kiss? Oh God, I keep coming over all cold when I think about it. I've had humiliations in the past, bloody massive ones but at least they've been pretty private and mostly anonymous. This one was with a great big copper in uniform with whom I often have to work. He had to bend over to hug me too 'cause I'm like some sort of sub-normal Hobbit. Y'think Samwise Gamgee was a bit of a moron. Meet me, his idiot sister.
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