Warning: here be a graphic image of my plasticine nose

General Nonsense

Preface – I started writing this at 10pm Wednesday, so you might find it harder to follow than that weird film Inception. 


 Here I sit, flicking idly through the ASOS website sale pages, searching in vain for a very specific cardigan (oh how I love a cardigan – giver of warmth, hider of boobs, provider of modesty, zhoozher-up of a plain frock, staple of holiday wardrobes the world o’er eg “oh yes it’s 32 degrees during the day but you’ll need to pop a wee cardi on in the evenings”) and wondering whether it’s too early to go to bed because the nightly bedtime phone chat with Mrs ‘Baps won’t be happening due to her stupid bloody phone playing up and making it sound like she’s phoning from inside a woolly hat while pot-holing in Cornwall, if that were a thing that she would do, which I very much doubt. 

There’s nowt worse than a muffled phone call; except perhaps a paper cut, or using a public toilet without realising there’s no bog roll and not having any tissues in your bag, either fresh or having been used as lipstick dotters because frankly any port will do in a storm. 

So, given that I’ve no frame of reference time-wise, I’m not sure whether or not this is an acceptable time to head bedwards. I don’t suppose it matters much. I’ll still be awake at 4am, flicking idly through ASOS sale for a cardi. 

I’ve had a sudden onset of free-floating anxiety, which I’m hoping is the two puffs of Ventolin I had ten minutes ago after an overzealous wheely bin trundling expedition up the drive,  and not a portent of a bad day tomorrow. (I can be quite witchy about these things. Just ask Mrs B. Any bad news delivered is usually met with “I bloody knew something bad was going to happen – I felt weird yesterday”)* I’m putting that asterisk there to remind me to insert a footnote about superstition. I’ll still forget though. 

A propos of nothing at all, check this gadget out.  

 This miracle of modern technology is a light which attaches to one’s phone for the taking of amazing selfies. I tried it. In its defence it probably needed more material to work with; not my carb bloated, world-weary face with what looks like a nose made of plasticine slapped on where a real nose would go. When did my nose start looking like that?! 

  I’ve never worried about how my nose looked before but now it’s all I can see. A bulbous daud of plasticine. God help me. Bloody selfie light indeed. 

It’s not mine by the way; it’s the latest addition to Hannah Mason Makeup Artist’s toolkit, which I enjoy a rifle through from time to time in revenge for all the stuff she’s pikey’d from me for the past 25 years not counting the great breast milk fandango of 1990. I’m not counting that because I gave it freely. 

It’s now 5am and there’s no sign of Tucker. I’m assuming my snoring (that’ll be due to my plasticine nose) drove him off to his beanbag nest in the living room. He’s started doing a weird thing – he creeps around after me round the house, no matter what I’m doing, as if he’s on a special mission from a weird canine detective agency. I’ll turn round suddenly and he’s just there, staring quietly at me, usually round corners. I might do a special blog reminiscent of “Kim Jong-Il looking at things” which was quite literally Kim Jong-Il looking at things. I could call it “Tucker looking at me, usually round corners”. Here’s a starter for ten, although it’s not from round a corner, it still demonstrates his new creepy habit very well. 


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