Just thought I’d pop in and check out Mam’s blog, and perhaps put forward a little mental interjection of my own in the process.

I have to say, I never thought Mam would be capable of such a literary feat considering that she has very little time to spare, what with herself and Aunty Gillian spending most of their time hard at work “learning important things” from the telly. Personally, I’m not sure that Fern Britton and That Silver Fox Philip Schofield have much to offer in the way of intellectual discourse, but I’m often assured that this isn’t the case and given a tasty pouch to ensure my accord. I do love it when there’s nothing on, though, because Mam and the others make me toys out of bits of string and I can chase their shadows in the den. Of course, it always gets a bit much when the fat humans start mocking my bald face, but I just ignore them. And yes, I am aware that the fact that my nose is the same colour as my face means that it looks like I haven’t got one, but really, do we have to go through the same “my cat’s got no nose” routine every single night?

And while I’m on the subject of things that get my goat, who’s this Dunlop character? Mam thought he used to live here, and had been given to the people down the street. But when Aunty Gillian came in the other night and said she’d seen him in the window of his real house when he was blatantly sat on our sofa, they finally realised that he might not be who he said he is. Honestly, it took them that long to work out? He’s just a chancer. Look:

I saw him and his friend (he says that it’s his “attourney”, but seriously, do I look stupid?) tearing around the neighbourhood like this but Mam says that he was weaned too young. Whatever.

Anyway, I have to go and look appealing. Aunty Gillian’s just got home and if I suck my cheeks in and lie on my back I’ll definitely be in for another pouch. Heh heh: pwnd.

Laters. Mrow.

Xx

Hello, welcome to The Suck.

New house is still filled with boxes, fruit crates, blue Ikea bags, yellow Netto bags (good strong handles) and Holland and Barratt packaging straps, and yet entirely not filled with neatly arranged bookshelves, made beds, filled wardrobes or alphabetised video collections.

It is, in short, a nightmare of vast proportions with an added Spare cat that won’t leave and a bed frame which sounds like the Deflating Tom-Cats’ Male Voice Choir whenever I even throw a clean pair of pants on it. Life laundry? I was two skips down and still own a full collection of Tinkle Tots and a whole box of “assorted paper”. Well, you never know.

As much as we love it, perhaps the first sneaky pangs of terror surfaced upon the realisation of the following facts:

• The washing machine has a tendency to piss water all over the floor at the commencement of every cycle.
• The sink, whilst being highly fashionable and attractive, does not have a draining board. Cue yet more floor pissage.
• The kitchen floor tiles, when wet, are highly perilous. (Although I’ve personally now got the hang of it and spent all Saturday sliding back and forth making a fry-up, so this could be classed as “fun”.)
• I own too much crap to be housed in the whole of a small European principality, let alone a two-bedroomed terrace.
• The Spare Cat™ will not. Go. Away. And is too fucking lush to send away with any conviction. And has been given the name Dunlop. Which means we can’t send him away. Because he has a name.
• David The Cat is not used to wet cat food. And has therefore spent the last two days pumping like a small furry cannon and producing some of the most noxious litter-fodder we have ever seen or smelt.
• We spent the last of our money on the third sack of cat litter in a week.
• Gillian buys butter, which means we have butter in our house. This to me is something like letting Renton and Sickboy keep heroin in the fridge whilst going cold-turkey on the basis that “they don’t have to use it”. Needless to say my Flora Light still has the foil on it and my spare tyre is once again saying “eh-oh” over the top of me Primark jeans.
• My collection of every school book and uni notebook that I have ever written even one line in is disrupting the gravitational field around Bensham and resulting in hundreds of earlobe injuries as the Elizabeth Duke jewellery is literally ripped from the local charvas.
• I like watching Top Gear and Q; Gillian likes 10 Years Younger and Kerrang. We have reached a compromise in simply watching my High Life DVD on repeat. “Oh dearie me” indeed.
• My afore-mentioned bed may or may not have contributed to my dream last night which involved PC Plum off Balamory and an urgent need to find a quiet back alley. I shit you not.
• The bath - the best bath in the world – makes up for its vast perfection by wilfully taking 45 agonising minutes to fill. And the utter joy of being to achieve total submersion when you are almost six foot is short-lived if the water temperature is even 0.5c too hot. In which case, one may be able to achieve nothing more than a deep empathy with a delicious lobster in the last thirty seconds of its tasty life.
• My chest of drawers keeps falling over due to some unseen malevolent force controlling the lay of my bedroom carpet.
• I cannot, for the life of me, find a home for my Buffy videos.

But oh my God, I absolutely love this house. It’s home already: it was the first time I walked through the door.

We have everything we need right here and when we (I) have finished unpacking, it’ll be a joy to come home to.

I have even, and this is a big deal, done the washing up after every meal I’ve had – straight away and without even thinking. No more plates containing microscopic eco-systems; no more cups left under my bed to breed. Just shiny white plates stacked in their Ikea rack, and a fresh lemon scent throughout.

Well, apart from just after David The Cat’s morning ablutions. But I’ve got some Munchies in and if she still insists that she’ll only eat the wet stuff, she’ll have to starve. I’m only thinking of her little bum-hole: it must be red-raw.

Right, here’s some pictures for your consideration. Do try to remember that we (I) haven’t finished unpacking. Obviously, this is a work in progress.

Oh, and don’t forget: Cats Rule. Dogs drool.

Laters.

Xx

PS: I like dogs as much as cats, actually. If not more should they happen to be black and spindly. I just thought I’d get involved in the comments war because I can’t use the comments function on Spaces from work and it tends to be on my dinner hour that I get a proper chance to check them out. Apologies. When my house is sorted this will be rectified. Promises.

x

I set myself a challenge on Sunday night: to look as shite as possible all week and thus discover the zen-like state which only the most destitute and shambolic members of society ever seem to achieve. Consider the old woman who you’ve no doubt seen pushing a ghetto blaster in a shopping trolley through the city centre each day. Or the old man with the giant beard who sings opera songs to no-one in particular. They always seem so immersed in their world: uncaring about their aesthetic appearance; and living each minute in a hazy bubble of subconscious delirium.

Obviously, this is an attractive proposition on a Sunday night, and I bravely ventured out sans make-up on Monday. I’m happy to report that I’ve managed all week so far, and I absolutely could not give a shit. Good.

Anyway, shallow envy pertaining to mental health issues in association with poor personal care aside, I really have managed to chill out a bit again, after a terrible week last week which culminated in a fairly disastrous mid-week binge drinking session and a subsequent plethora of mascara stains on the old pillow.

But fuck it. Life goes on and I’m not going to be able to control everything 100% of the time, so all I can do is sigh, remember not to make the same mistake ever again, and pick myself up. I am never going backwards ever again. Last year taught me that I can be prone to do so, but it’s vital that I now push forward, upward, diagonally, any way but down or back. (Being autoana… anaeath… anetic… one of those people who ascribes colours to months and personalities to numbers, I can say that I am going north and east and not south or west. This will make no sense to anyone who doesn’t think that three is a tweedy schoolteacher, and that A# sounds like purple, so don’t worry. It’s complicated.)

So, moving swiftly on, I’ve been having interesting conversations with fellow blogger and all-round workplace daftie Paul, about blogs and their applications. He’s doing a “talk” (he gets £40 and his lunch - *jealous*) for a PR company on the subject, and it’s his first birthday on MySpack – go here – so we’ve been chatting about our respective experiences in “teh web”. I realised that this pile of mindless drivel has saved my marbles on several occasions, and almost got quite emotional about some of the people who read it. Then I remembered that I’m supposed to be a dangerous nutter (well you try explaining to your new colleagues when drunk why you took six months off and had to be moved to another office without sounding dull) and simply went “Grr” a bit instead. I am, afterall, The Angriest Person on MSN™. We came to the conclusion that blogs are a place to have fun and should not be used as diaries / confessionals / any sort of plateau for shit poetry about cutting oneself whilst listening to Evanesence. I also realised that he’s off to give a talk to a load of professionals interested in “market audiences” and “cultural trend growth”, and in fact, he just wanted to run a cyber pub. Ha ha, I say.

Wow, nothing else to report, apart from the fact that, oh, yeah, I’m MOVING ON SATURDAY TO A REALLY LUSH HOUSE AND I WILL HAVE A CAT!!!!!!

Yes, that’s right, me and Gillian-who-still-doesn’t-have-an-NLPH-nickname have secured the house we wanted and we are currently boxing our (my) shit up for the big day. Well, actually, she’s asleep and I’m fucking about on the laptop, but we’ll get sorted. Sometime.

But pics to follow, and I must make you aware that my new bedroom is MASSIVE. w00t!!

Anyway, best go and half-heartedly look through some boxes that I still haven’t emptied from when I moved eighteen months ago. Fun.

I know this flat has been a bloody nightmare, but it was my own little corner of the world, and I’m going to miss it. In the same way that you miss an unsatisfying sexual partner when they’re gone. It was hard to act happy about the situation, but it was yours, and no-one else could say that. Even if they did have knob like a brussel sprout and a burning desire for you to dress them like a schoolgirl as a precursor to lurve.

Still, it will feel so good to actually have a bath without having to be careful not to let the mixer hit the wall in case large chunks of mildew slide into the bath. Mmm. Happy days.

One final thing.

I used to love Take That to the point of mental illness. Then I became a teenager and it wasn’t the same. I left them behind for other things…. Or so I sodding thought.

Bloody Jason Orange, being all perfect and still making me cuddle my pillow in the vain hope it will transmogrify into him. Bollocks. I’m 26. It isn’t fair.

Hope all are well and picking only the finest mucus from the gaping nostril of life.

I can’t believe I just said that.

Laters.

xx