Lucid dreaming chips and Krystle Carrington. 

General Nonsense

I’ve struggled this week blogwise. I’m blaming the lack of wheat and the effect of that on my mental state (flibbertigibetty and questionable at the best of times) and faculties. There’s no reason why I’ve stopped eating wheat except that I’m clutching at straws to shift this baby weight, which has been hanging around for 25 years. I’ve a bloody wedding to get thin for for chrissake. The wedding of the aforementioned baby, as a matter of fact. I caved and ate a sliver of toast last night and beat myself up so much about it I smoked a fag at the back door and mixed my bad self a cheeky little French Martini. 

So on to this week’s news roundup:

Good: had tea out with colleagues. Mushroom stroganoff with half and half (rice and chips). Very enjoyable except the stroganoff of course had cream in it which my body doesn’t seem to tolerate very well, with hilarious consequences. Ahem. 

Bad: evening parish inspection and lamppost sniffing with Tucker. This isn’t bad in and of itself (what does that phrase even MEAN?) but I was alarmed at the guerrilla tooting which has become very popular with youths driving (their mums’) cars. Indiscriminate car horn honking is dangerous to a woman of my age, weak of bladder and high of blood pressure. 

Bad: remember the blog of yore where I mentioned the blah blah blah thing? In case you missed it, here it is.  

You know those scenarios where somebody says “under no circumstances should you do blah blah blah” and you immediately go and do blah blah blah? I’ve done a blah blah blah.  Oh it’s a trifling thing really but I just needed to ‘fess it. I’ll beat myself up for it for days. I’ve taken to my bed for a few hours of self-loathing before Great British Sewing Bee comes on. 

Yesterday I finally redeemed myself from the shame of the above incident, mouthed the usual platitudes along the lines of “oh yes I’ve learned my lesson, don’t you worry about that, I’m NEVER LETTING THIS OUT OF MY SIGHT” complete with a comedy never-letting-the-thing-out-of-my-sight routine, to which my mother (before she started talking about fisting cows – see previous blog post) would have said “Lindsey – stop showing off”. Suitably redeemed, I left and got on with my busy day. and then not two hours later did the blah blah blah again. I’ve no defence except that I’m an idiot. Too busy showing off to pay attention to rules, apparently. I’m convinced I’ve adult onset ADD. 

Goodslashbad: Decided my limp hair needed some volume. (Hormones are a bitch of a thing)  Sprayed on some foosty old snake oil hair volume giver – dried hair upside down as instructed – looked in mirror and Krystle Carrington was staring back at me, looking all bouffant and gormless. 

Good; The wet patch in the utility room carpet isn’t Tucker’s fault. 

Bad: The wet patch in the utility room is the washing machine’s fault. I won custody of the washing machine five years ago at the battle of  I’m Leaving You and I’m convinced it’s cursed, possessed with demons as some kind of karmic retribution. I’m being retributed karmically through the medium of Hotpoint. 

Bad: Weird dream involving a nun eating chips. I think I deliberately lucid dreamt the chips, mind. She was probably thinking “I don’t even want these fucking chips but fatty here (jerks her thumb towards a sleeping me) thrust them in my hand. And fuck knows why she’s dreaming about nuns anyway, I’ve better things to be doing than skittering around a trippy tree-lined dreamscape with chips in my hand”

Finally I haven’t mentioned my lovely Dutch visitors! I’ll keep that for another post. I’m about to get in the shower before any other bugger stakes their claim. 

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