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Like Mariah, I don't do stairs. ⋆ tigerbaps thinks she's it

Like Mariah, I don’t do stairs.


Here we go with blog number 2 of TiBloPoDaJa. 

I stupidly started drafting this blog post on the Notes app on my phone at 7am on Saturday. Unfortunately the same phone is now running an update which will take about forty earth hours and all because of emoji envy. I didn’t have a pie emoji on my phone and was having a protracted conversation about pies in which the other conversation participants were blithely appending pie emojis and all I could see was a question mark. When my pain in the arse phone decides to complete this update and blurts forth my pie emoji, I’ll be back…

Aaaand I’m back…

I’ve no idea what to blog about today. I’ll just sit here, thumb hovering over keyboard (I type blog posts on my bloody PHONE like a bloody idiot) until a muse of some sort descends.
I’ve noticed I’ve a tendency to repeat the same blogstuff. Similarly I find, when the memories of yesteryear thing pops up on Facebook, that I rant about the same things on an annual basis which is weird and worrying as we’ve history of dementia in the fam and I’m a terrible hypochondriac. Actually no – I’m a brilliant hypochondriac, because I”m really good at it. And if my repetitive Facebook posts and blogs are anything to go by, I’ve no idea why I’m such a bundle of rage about things of zero consequence. Must also be genetic.

Oh hey – speaking of genetic, the muse hath descendeth! Allow me to fill you in on some things (well, one thing) you may have missed last year unless you have the unquestionably great fortune of knowing me in real life.

In a typically introverted extrovert fashion I took up genealogy this year! (herewith my tedious link to genetic from previous paragraph in case you were being pedantic and looking for it). I researched my family tree for about a week before the couldn’t be arsed-ness set in (a personal best).

I spent my whole life thinking I’d some fairly reliable Irish ancestry. My mother always claimed her father was born in Belfast. Hell I even blamed my bones and teeth, which appear to have the consistency of chewy meringue,  if my variously broken collarbone, hand,  fifth metatarsal and bloody awful teeth are anything to go by – on my inherited genes made weak by the Irish Potato Famine. I’ve never actually googled Irish Potato Famine, so don’t come at me with your historical fact checking. Turns out that her father was actually born in Dumfries. And his father before him and so on and so back millennia. What a ruddy disappointment. I may of course have researched the wrong family tree, but I’ll never know now because I’ve ticked that particular box and have no desire to revisit it. 

Further family tree investigations revealed that nearly all the women were called Agnes. How did they differentiate between the Agnesses? Maybe they added silent Ps and Ts – Pagnes, Tagnes, Wagnes. Or maybe added descriptive prefixes as in Thin Agnes. Big Agnes. Wee Agnes. Old Agnes. Agnes fae the Block. Agnes wi’ the pox. 

Other than that there was very little of note and I’ve some fairly bog standard ancestry. It did reveal however that the relative after whom I was given my middle name’s untimely cause of death aged 8 (which we were always led to believe was as a result of washing her hair and going out with it wet with the car window down) actually died of something fairly normal and of its time which I’ve now forgotten. Possibly Tuberculosis. Tragic, but I bloody resent all those years I spent drying my long hair in front of the electric fire, terrified of a certain death due to wet hair, although I did throw caution to the winds between the ages of 18 and 25 and sashayed into work with wet permed hair which froze in the winter, much to the horror of the elderly and crabbit typist. I say elderly; she was probably 35 but she seemed old to me in my young and perpetually hungover crispy haired state.

So here we are in 2018. I hardly ventured out between 22nd December and 2nd January. Mostly because the bastard car broke down on 22nd December and my garage was of course closed for the festive break.

So while everyone around me was busy socialising and making merry, I, like Nero fiddling while Rome burned, mostly sat on my arse and watched a lot of telly, while Les attended to some dull menial task or other like hoovering upstairs.

I rarely go upstairs – there’s nothing for me there. I’m used to bungalows where everything is on the level. Oh yes there are things upstairs I may sometimes need – fripperyfrappery and knickknackery for various hobbies, a range of foosty old gift bags of indeterminate age and provenance kept for the penny wise, pounds foolish purpose of regifting (and woe betide any idiot who writes on the gift tag), the house stapler, which may or may not have been half-inched from a previous place of employment, and my Tesco Bag for Life full of odd bits of fabric and balls of wool that will never be converted into anything useful but will never be chucked out because my children need to inherit SOMETHING goddammit. 

Rather than schlep upstairs, If I need anything I simply order it from Amazon and sometimes it arrives at my ground level front door, depending on the whim of the Hermes delivery bloke who has been known to either leave my parcels in the outside toilet of the joiner’s yard next door or just not bother delivering them at all. It’s a chance I’m willing to take. Like Mariah, I don’t do stairs.

PS I now have a pie emoji! Sadly this may be the last mention of pie for a while. January diet looms large. I’ll need the salad emoji. 

Blessed be the fruit  

 Pie Emoji


  1. Janice Richardson 03/01/2018 9:10 PM

    Brilliant… Can’t wait for the next instalment!!! 😂

  2. Gemma 18/01/2018 8:12 AM

    Glad to hear I am not the only one with emoji envy. I found myself looking for a tank emoji the other day so I could describe a work meeting to my friend. Unsurprisingly, it turns out I didn’t have one

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