Things I’m sick to the back teeth of:
- Not winning £300,000 on scratchcards.
- That bloody light coming on in the bloody car – YOU DON’T NEED A BLOODY LAMBDA SENSOR. STFU AND LET’S HEAR NO MORE ABOUT IT OR I’LL TRADE YOU IN.
- Storm Desmond. In a tradition stretching back to Hurricane Bawbag, I propose that the naming of weather phenomenon be left in the safe hands of the people of Scotland eg Storm Fannychops or Hurricane Buckfast etc. Or non-Scottish nomenclature that sounds rude but isn’t eg Hurricane Tummystick or Storm Ringsausage.
- Eating dust when I actually want all the carbs and fat. I rebeled and had four fish fingers for my tea. I struggled to articulate this to Les on the phone and ended up in a tangle of teeth, tongue and lips. Alliteration of foodstuffs can be tricksy.
- Not being able to kill two birds with one stone by taking Tucker a walk and popping in to the Big Tesco en route. I could claim he’s a guide dog in training if he’d just co-operate and stop being overfriendly and skittish.
- The telly and the absolute shite thereon.
- The state of my bedroom.
- The festive decorations not teleporting themselves from the undoubtedly spider-ridden garage to my living room.
- The thing that I’ve hoovered up – possibly a hair tie or a kirby grip – that makes the hoover go thrrrrrrrr despite my poking its innards with a knitting needle.
- Talking of knitting needles, I’m sick of the lack of motivation to finish the seventies-tastic tank top I started knitting for Les way back in the early heady days of our relationship when we were both holding our stomachs in and shaving our legs regularly and I was trying to impress her with my questionable raft of domestic and craft skills. She sees me for what I am now – a hairy legged plump non-completer.
Apologies for being Mrs Neggypants but I’m feeling a bit biscuit-ersed tonight. Bloody weather.