I started writing this on Saturday morning and the quiet weekend ended up being not very quiet after all. I’m not changing it, so you’ll just have to suspend disbelief and read it. Accept it for what it is, as it were. I’m sure you’ve better things to be doing on a Sunday evening anyway.
A quiet weekend is being enjoyed. Aside from painting my nails and Whatsapping pictures of results to Ash (the undisputed muthafuckin’ QUEEN of nail painting) for one of her no-nonsense critiques, the latest being “hahaha Christ Did Tucker paint them for you?”, I’m not doing much else. I had half planned a trip to see the Kelpies which fell through. I’m desperate to see them but have stubbornly refused to, unless it’s with someone I’m romantically involved with because for some weird reason I yearn to be kissed under the Kelpies. Christ they’ll have either rusted or become a seagull colony before that’s likely to happen so I may have to compromise and take myself to see the bastarding Kelpies since no other bugger is battering down my door to take me. Not keen to go in my own vehicle because the top boot keeps popping open at inappropriate moments which would be hilarious if it wasn’t, you know, scary and ultimately life threateningly dangerous.
Fast forward to 5pm Saturday: It was at this point that I decided to accompany number two daughter to Glasgow, so the quiet weekend that was being enjoyed ended up being not so quiet after all. Oh yes I’m all about the spontaneity, me. I can just pop off to Glasgow on a whim. A toothbrush, clean pants and away I go. (Anybody who knows me knows that this is a lie. I’m so weird I have to see how I feel on the day which then determines whether I commit to going anywhere, even arguably important things like weddings. I could wake up and think “Nuh. This isn’t a good day for socialising” and pull the metaphorical duvet over my head, turning my metaphorical cat’s arse face to the wall)
So off to Glasgow I went, and this morning paid a visit to that temple of quasi middle class worship – Whole Foods in Giffnock. Full to the gunnels with healthy juices and quinoa, shelves groaning with weird breads made with flour hand-milled by Peruvian grannies or some such nonsense and that’ll be fifty of your British pounds a slice thank you very much. I noticed the abundance of well…water really. Water in various flavours and colours costing upwards of three quid a bottle. We’re all mental!
A propos of nothing at all, as my mother used to say, when she still had her marbles in the days before she started lobbing presumably worn pop socks out of her bathroom window to the bemusement of passers-by below, I’m calling bullshit on water (and the constant pressure to drink it), protein shakes and pouting. You can’t open your mouth to complain about your health these days without some brown rice and sandals wearing smartarse whining “Are you drinking enough water?” while looking pityingly at your cankles. And protein shakes? Shit. Off. Just shit off. No need. There’s so much protein in the shops they’re bloody selling it in many different forms. What a miserable bloody existence! Oh purleeaaase. BORRRRINNNNG!
I must stop soon. I’m getting ranty.
But before I go… as friends and family and everyotherbugger will know, I’ve had a bit of a flirt with tattoos these past few months. The latest one which was finished last Wednesday is at a horrible itchy stage with bits falling off it and it’s driving me nuts and inducing all manner of intrusive thoughts. I know it’s not just me who gets intrusive thoughts eg “What would happen if I licked this dishwasher tablet? Will it taste fizzy?” (They don’t – I tried it). I’ve a friend who shall remain nameless because her intrusive thoughts are so hilariously batshit crazy she’d be carted off in a straitjacket if her thoughts were to be made public but she sure as shit makes me feel that I’m relatively sane. So the itchy healing tattoo is sending me so doolally I had an intrusive thought this morning whilst removing my skanky chipped nail polish (from yesterday) that it would be a fun thing to put nail polish remover on the itchy tattoo. That’d certainly give it something to think about. Then I thought I might give it a good going over with an Emery board. I didn’t do it, but thought I might. I once had an ulcer on my eye (due to slutty contact lens hygiene) that I had to use eye drops for several weeks and every time I went to put the eye drops in I’d think “it’d be funny if I picked up the wrong bottle and put nail glue in my eye instead of eye drops. Are you laughing. No? I know. it’s not even funny, is it? It’s actually slightly worrying that people like me have the right to vote.
Oh wait – I forgot to rant about pouting. Enough with the pouting already. In the name of fuckery stop. With. The. Pouting. Just smile. We used to do that in the olden days and if it was good enough for us then, it’s good enough for you now, missy.