The latest addition to my list of “Things I Think Are A Load of Shite” is The Bucket List. (And bagels. When in the name of fuck will somebody give me a break and make bagels without the bloody hole? It makes ramming sausages in it very difficult – the natural gentle curve of the humble sausage doesn’t lend itself to a hole shaped carbohydrate vehicle and allows red hot sausage juices to drip down one’s cavernous cleavage. In other sausage related news, I came home to find a dead sausage atop the cooker, which Heather had removed from the oven. I must’ve forgotten it when I was busy crabbitly ramming three sausages into my bagel on Friday)
The Bucket List is nonsense on stilts, as Les would say. It’s a middle class bloody nonsense of a thing. When I was growing up (above the chippy at Lincluden) it was a miracle you survived childhood what with the perils round every corner. Public information films were the norm, and they scared the shit out of me. I’m still wary of walking round corners, lest a couple of glaziers with pencils/fags tucked behind their ears are manoeuvring massive sheets of glass, all the better to decapitate me with. I’m sure it was literally clear and present danger, and I’m further sure that somebody I know lost a nose in a glass maneouvering incident. (How did he smell, you might ask. AWFUL!) I may have misremembered this, in the same way I’ve allegedly misremembering my mother saying that she and my dad couldn’t afford to let me go to University, while my dad bet on horses and smoked like a beagle in a laboratory. She claimed I misremembered this. That’s a shame because I dined out on that story, invoking sympathy from everyone I met. “Oh you poor thing!” they’d exclaim “tsk…such a missed opportunity” and hopefully thought of me forever thereafter as a high achiever against all the odds and despite my imaginary deprived childhood.
My mother only challenged me about this about ten years ago. “Indeed we did not!” She refuted; “you just left it too late to fill in the bloody forms! You were too busy tonging your hair and smoking teabags”
For chrissake mother. I resented you for thirty odd years for that. How dare you burst my bubble of self pity. As the youngest of three, I craved attention. Still do, in many ways, hence this blog.
Talking blog, I’m considering writing a book. I need to plan for my retirement. If I hadn’t pursued so many expensive hobbies I’d be a millionaire. All those flying lessons and base jumping trips have bled me dry. (Ah. No. Wait. Sorry – I meant shoe buying and wool hoarding for projects that never got off the ground).
I’ve been inspired by a colleague who successfully crowdfunded and published a very successful clever dicky book about something I don’t fully understand (Arduino? Electronics or some such nonsense. He’s a bloody boffin! His latest creation is a 3D printer. Something else I don’t fully understand. I can only get my head round it by thinking of it as a “Thing Maker” rather than a printer).
Anyway I’ll be knocking back any future social engagements due to imminent book writing. I hate social engagements anyway so it’s not much of a stretch and no great loss to polite society if I’m not there with my social anxiety and my top lip stuck to my teeth with nerves. I accidentally spat on a baby the other day with my social anxiety coping mechanism which consists of really just showing off and being overly and disingenuously gregarious. I’m an arse. “Oh christ I’m so sorry – I just spat on your wean!”
Watch this space re book. Don’t hold your breath like. It’s just my latest attempt at pathetic attention seeking if I’m being honest.