Grapes

Do not go with tea.

Important questions

The whole horrible thing has had a good. (Just the one so far, but frankly, I think even one is pretty impressive).

Being pregnant meant that I had to come off the little pills which have helped to keep me cheery (I say little, one of them was fucking enormous and like swallowing a sausage every night. That came out a lot ruder than I was going for.)

Now I am no longer pregnant, I am still off the little pills. Even though not being pregnant has made me sad, I have remained firm. In a weepy sort of a way.

Anyway. They had a sedative effect. The pills. And now, I am considerably less sleepy. This is generally good, apart from when hub is trying to go to sleep. At night. Like people do.

My point is, if you could have only one of the following for you life, which would it be?

Falkor

Gizmo

or

Ludo?

Hub would rather have Ludo. At least I think that's what he said. Although it could have been "Shut the fuck up and go to sleep."

MMMMMMMMMMMM

Oh Good Lord.

John Barrowman and James Marsters snogging.

And then fighting.

I do not know if I shall ever recover.

Or if I ever want to.

Wiicriminations.

Today, mostly, it rained.

I need new boots. Mine have large holes. The rain got in and I got wet feet. And soggy socks.

It was not much fun.

But that is not what I am here to talk about.

No!

It was like a fooling-you-tangent thing!

Ha!

I am sneaky.

You know how I told you a little while ago that with my job I got a number of shiny toys including a marvellous Macbook Pro (on which I tippity-tap even now this very second would you believe)?

Well.

For the new term, I have been given a new shiny toy.

Y'know, to use with the yoof.

For totally improvement-based purposes. Obviously.

It is a Wii.

Woo.

(I am doing a project with them on the performative nature of gaming and why they like it, innit.)

It is VEER shiny.

But there is a problem.

A problem named Husband.

I have not spoken to him for days. He claims he cannot hear me and that I speak too quietly. Really it is because of the tinkly-spinkly Mario music playing in his ears.

And he keeps shouting at me, whenever he cannot fly like a bee or surf on a manta ray or fight a big dragon thing.

Which honestly, is not my fault.

I am no dragon-supporter.

(This is not strictly true, I think dragons are ace and would be one if I could.)

Anyway.

*sigh*

It is proper boring.

And I do not know if the yoof will ever get their little teenage hands on it.

Poor underprivileged yoof.

PS. I accidentally missed the year anniversary of starting my little bloglette. Blow out a candle for me dear readers. And make sure it is stuck in a cake that you can eat afterwards. With some tea.
PPS. For clarification, do not eat the tea, eat the cake. Drink the tea. Just like a normal person.

Jean

When things were very dark a few years ago.

When I was tangled in an giant web of knotty despair and bleakness.

When I was alone one evening, gently rocking in a corner of the kitchenette and weeping until I thought I might accidentally drown the weird cat with my tears.

I rang the emergency number from my GP's surgery.

A lady answered.

I explained my predicament.

My fears for the weird cat.

That I wasn't entirely sure that I should strictly be living anymore, and I thought, at that moment, that maybe a doctor would be a good person to talk to.

The lady.

She was an introductory type person.

The person you tell what is wrong to and then she directs your call.

("Mad! I'm sure of it! Straight to the loony-bonkers dealer-withs!")

Anyway.

The lady.

I shall call her Jean.

(She sounded like a Jean.)

Jean.

I think she might have had short, curly, sandy-blonde hair.

She was about 45.

About.

Jean said to me a thing.

And whenever I accidentally get tangled in the knotty web and the big spider of doom is approaching, I think of the thing Jean said.

"Life is a great commodity."

(She had a slightly cockney accent.)

(And sounded like she smoked between twenty and thirty cigarettes a day.)

I have been mulling over Jean's assertion during the past week.

I think that largely, she is right.

And I am glad that one dark, weepy, hopeless evening, Jean was my receptionist.