Saturday, 30 March 2013

Number 8 - In Which We Decide To Move House.

We live in one of those houses that is about two years old, was thrown up in a week and was then sold for more than the GDP. One of those houses that has top of the range light fittings and switches, but shoddy wiring. Three toilets costing £1000 each (yep) but plumbing that could have been done by a toddler. And very possibly was.

So when it rained indoors last year (a result of the fancy bath being attached to the outflow pipe by fairy tears and nothing else and subsequently dumping an entire bath full of water through the floor), we decided we needed to move to a house that was built properly. I would rather pay an extortionate amount per calendar month for a house that won't fall down round my ears when it's windy, as I suspect this one will very soon.

I won't miss the view of the park. I am a bit tired of seeing FiFi the Pitbull being walked by its owner who thinks it's OK to leave FiFi's shit for someone else to stand in. Our parochial little backwater may be frightfully middle class, but as it turns out, it's these middle classers that are the laziest at picking up after their pooches but are the first to write to the local paper complaining about other dogs' messes. 

Small town dramas. I shouldn't complain really. The biggest drama we've had round here recently is that someone's bike was stolen from their front garden. Headline news that. For two weeks.

Thursday, 21 March 2013

Number 7 - In Which Twitter Mocks The Mighty.

I'm back on my feet again after being struck down by a fearful curse. (Pleurisy, bleurgh.) Things at work are changing, and I'm supposed to be working right now in fact, but I am not. I am procrastinating by writing this, wasting far too much time on Twitter and howling with laughter at Buzzfeed.

Three words: Poor George Osborne. You have to feel sorry for the weak-willed little wanker. He goes and tries to get all down with today's society, joins Twitter then gets publicly ridiculed and lambasted. I wonder how long he'll last?

In other news, I saw my first lamb of the year today. Super cute. And I also go emailed this delightful picture which reminded me not to complain about being cold:

I'm colder than you, so stop complaining. 

Saturday, 16 March 2013

Number 6 - In Which The Night Is Dark And Full Of Terrors.

Being laid up with the lurgy has meant that I have had time to catch up on being a lazy slob. I have spent this time wisely and am watching Seasons 1 & 2 of Game of Thrones FOR THE FIRST TIME.

I am as astounded as you. How can I not have seen this before now? Why did nobody tell me that there existed a programme where people shagged and got beheaded all within minutes of each other? There are tits. And arses. And willies. This appeals to the raging voyeur in me. I might not like getting naked myself, and find sex with Him a disappointing chore, but I'll happily watch others go at it until their bits fall off. Or get chopped off. Whichever comes first.

Must go. There's more tits coming up. But for now, enjoy this delightful parody:

Wednesday, 6 March 2013

Number 5 - In Which Spring Springs But My Lungs Collapse.

I have Pleurisy.

I may die due to not being able to breathe.

OK, I won't because I am on super antibiotics and strong painkillers but I sound like I have emphysema. I know this because I was standing in the queue of the Post Office yesterday and the old dear in front of me turned around and looked startled and then said, "Oh, I'm sorry dear, I thought you were my husband. You sound like him. He has emphysema."

Which was nice.

So, despite Spring, and therefore sunshine approaching, I'm in bed feeling sorry for myself. Though I am about to watch Pretty in Pink on On Demand. So it's not all mucus.