Well LARPing happened, but judging by the hundreds of photos of me looking like a vibrant blue teepee in my surgical scrubs, I’ll be better off making the tea in future. Running, check. Falling on rocks, check. Ambling through the forest with the grace of a wheezing, landed manatee, oh fuck yeah, check.

I’m now so fat my shoulders are wider than my head – sideways. How the hell did this happen? I mean sure, I’ve spent the last twelve months eating pizza and watching increasingly banal TV, but four stone? Are you serious? I can now cradle my lap flab in my arms. If there was one part of my body which was always ok-ish, it was my stomach. Nowadays I could piss in a PCs helmet and he’d never know it was because I was too fat to lope to a bog. Unless he had a Clearblue on him, but I reckon it would rattle about in the cosh holder too much. God, I hope the gym tomorrow isn’t full of Smug Thins who’ll laugh at my Tesco exercise pants and Nintendo T-shirt. Yes, it really has taken me a whole month to actually motivate myself into going. At this rate I might get up a really good head of steam and attempt more than ten push-ups in time to witness the end of the universe. Actually, with a speck of perspective, a flat stomach sort of pales in comparison. Nah, I’d die if David Tennant turned up in the TARDIS (note uber-nerd capitalisation there. Athangyew) and witnessed me flobbering into the fall-out shelter. Even worse, he could be splattered with three stone of gelatinous breast tissue as I am vaporized into the ether once and for all.

How cheerful.

Still, despite the fact that this weekend has opened my eyes to the possibility that I might actually have surpassed the old “curvy” delusion, and taken a stalling u-turn into what is almost surely clinical obesity, I had a nice, if occasionally terrifying, humiliating and utterly intimidating weekend. I honestly did not think it would be so nasty being surrounded by four grown men wielding rubber spears and realising that I have absolutely no idea how to fight back. Obviously, being me, my first reaction was to twat them with the business end of a nearby branch, but this was a game, and somehow I struggled with the concept of waving my own (tiny) rubber weapon at them and shouting “MAJOR, MAJOR, CRITICAL”. I believe that this is very common amongst noobs, and perhaps with practice I would improve, but I’ve been honest, and the most honest assessment I can make is that I was actually cripplingly shy throughout the whole thing. It’s not a customary emotion for me to experience, brazening most awkwardness out with stupid faces as I normally do, but I just felt so inexperienced and well, fat all weekend, that I was rubbish, frankly. I do forget that I haven’t acted for at least ten years, and that when cornered I more likely to offer apologies for things than run screaming at people, and I really shouldn’t. I would like to therefore state once and for all, that at any given moment of pressure, I am probably operating on 67% bullshit factor and in reality wetting my massive pants and wishing that I was at home with a copy of Vurt, the cat and a special pizza.

Cheer up Arnold, you miserable cow, it’s almost Saturday.

Almost.

Laters

xx

Sooooo….

I passed my driving test. Hurrah! And first time, too! (The time I failed when I was 17 doesn’t count. It doesn’t.) I was so convinced that I’d failed (I started to cry during my third attempt to reverse round a corner) that I replied “That’s not funny or appropriate” when the man told me I’d passed. He asked me if I’d like him to reconsider. I almost said yes, such a hash had been made. Still, no-one was killed or even seriously injured, and looking back, I did handle the Pramface walking out in front of me with plenty of skill. And considering we took the only one of the twelve test routes that I had never driven on, through some very busy areas on a Saturday, I can’t say I’m displeased with my performance. Crying might have been a bit much, like. Especially with half an hour left of the test.  Can’t drive anywhere till June 24^th, like because The Mam is insured with Saga, and they won’t insure me because I’ve still got my own teeth, or something. But still, phase one of Operation Lifestyle is complete. Operation Lifestyle is broken into several important phases. I wrote it on the back of someone’s parking ticket one day at work and it reads as follows:

1) Pass driving test.

2) Find meaningful career.

3) Stop being fat.

4) Make effort with appearance.

5) Read some classics and not just Hornblower novels.

As you can see, I am charging down the Lifestyle Highway in my Positivitymobile. I’m even joining the gym tomorrow (hereafter to be known as “The James” because that’s what I like to call it – go figure).

It’s nice to have a plan.

I’m also going LARPing with BFEmma (oh yeah, there goes our cool Emma, I just went public) in June. We accepted the invite on the basis that it is being organised by our good friend Sarah, and will not involve corsets, but will involve gore. And corpses. I am anticipating a fine weekend. And hopefully lots of lovely pictures of me dressed up like a mental patient.

Work is still wack, although I was given the opportunity to step into my manager’s shoes the other day, which says more about how desperate they were than how good I am. I spent the entire day, admittedly in “The Big Chair”, but with the heater going up me keks and subsequently ended the afternoon sweating like a fat lass. A problem made infinitely worse with the realisation that everything was going wrong. I mean, who would give me fourteen thousand quid to cash up and not think that something wouldn’t balance? Seriously? I was more than glad to resume pleb status in the morning. If my career track in the Civil Service is going to involve counting, it’ll be even longer than previously anticipated before I get on the ladder. The future of such a position is sitting here, watching Chelsea lose in a Teenage Mutant Hero Turtles (original) T-shirt and drinking orange pop from a Carry on Doctor mug, having previously been reading Bizarre magazine which this month features an amputee fetish model on the cover. I had, as Olivia Newton John is wont to say, better shape up if I’m to do any better in this life.

I’m off to attempt to put the cat’s feet in the sink and feel all warm inside about Ronaldo missing his penalty. Even if I was supporting Man U.

Laters.

xx

Fuck me, I hadn’t realised it had been so long…

I can’t be arsed to go “well this is what I’ve been doing”, because what I’ve been doing is about as interesting as watching a documentary devoted entirely to people driving to the shops.

I have however, developed an exciting new medical condition, and let’s face it: That’s really why you’re all here.

I had my tooth out in October (probably, I’m not sure I was actually even participating in the latter part of last year because I can’t remember a thing about it. Work, you see, has destroyed what was left of my mind after that year in Leeds) and it was, frankly, longer than Rip Van Winkle’s champion snooze. In fact, the dentist had to break part of my jaw to get the vile bugger out. I should point out here that the tooth had to come out due to a financial issue, viz I couldn’t afford the three hunnerd quid for root canal, and not due to any hideous oral hygiene issues which I should be ashamed of. Just saying, in case anyone thinks that I have teeth like something walking down a Sunderland back alley offering fifty pence a go. So long tooth comes out. Infection, or "dry socket" as it is somewhat cryptically known, follows. Mostly, I might as well admit, because I wasn’t about to stop smoking for anything less than a miraculous pregnancy. So, my own fault...

Or was it??

*tension music a la The Apprentice or something*

It turns out, after two lots of sinusitis and a couple of visits to the dental hospital, that my tooth, my tooth, was lodged happily in my sinus cavity for twenty years before its untimely departure into the real world and subsequently under my pillow. (I’m still waiting, you unreliable cow – and it had better be worth it.)

So, I now have a lovely, smooth, well-healed tunnel running from my mouth (the side I chew, of course, it would have to be, this is me) directly into my sinus. I have since been on three courses of anti-biotics (the kind that make you puke and have to drink several Actimels a day in order to prevent unthinkable evils possibly in the pant area) and will “probably” have to have a bone graft in my face. That’s In. My. Face.

Could you please take a moment to reflect on how one person can have so, so much wrong with them, to the point where a simple tooth can be welded into their nasal cavities and therefore grant them the power to sneeze remnants of their lunch out after twenty minutes? Oh, and you should have seen me try to blow up a balloon the other day – can you imagine how distressing my work mates found it when the air came rushing out of my nose? Inexplicably, seemingly more distressing than I found it.

And the best part is that I have to wear a fucking gum shield all the time which not only reaches the parts other humiliations cannot by making me look like Kurt Angle, but also brings the pain more subtly in my new unwavering resemblance when attempting to communicate to the beaver off Winnie The Pooh. (Thanks “BF”Emma, for that confidence-boosting analogy.) Have I worn it constantly as directed? Have I fanny. But I have to go back on Friday to see the specialist (The students were almost pissing themselves in excitement when I went in the first time  - their usual fare consisting mostly of charvers with teeth knocked out in fights and people won’t pay for a toothache to be looked at until an abscess forms which actually eats away half of their faces) and I know for a fact I can’t garner enough wear and tear on the thing to convince them otherwise. Knackers. I’m going to get wrong, aren’t I?

Still, at least I’m not bald.

But I am now frantically touching every wooden surface within reach to ensure that this does NOT happen.

Oh, and I have a boyfriend. But you probably guessed as much, didn’t you? He’s a lucky bugger: “Well MY girlfriend wears a gumshield and can shoot chicken korma out of her nose, and in three months’ time will almost certainly resemble Kojak thanks to her inability to keep her mouth shut and stop tempting fate…”

Good job he’s pragmatic.

Laters.

xx

At the risk of this blog requiring imminent re-naming, viz “Pustules, Pox and Plague: My life in Illness”, I would like to report that the hole in my gum which coincidentally connects directly to my sinuses due to the removal of an abnormally long tooth, has officially gone bad and decided that this week, it will have an abscess. Cue much facial throbbing and a general inability to eat on the right hand side of my face for the seventh consecutive month. I can come to no conclusion other than the fact that I seem to be very Like Paris Hilton these days, crawling as I am, with diseases.

Still, giant oral pus balls aside, life is pootling along in familiar style. Another week, another job application, another vast gaping void where a response should be, etc etc. Either I’m a complete chuffer with no viable skills and the CV of a 12 year-old feral child, or my postman hates me and uses any mail other than bills to wipe his forehead on whilst climbing the violently steep hill which crests at my house. I believe I may have been raised by chimps, because my postman drives a van. What the hell, I’m the finest Fixed Penalty clerk there will ever be.

My spell-checker tells me that the “I’m” in that last sentence is grammatically incorrect and should be “I is”. Apparently, my spell-checker is an offensive African-American slave stereotype.

Speaking of offensive stereotypes, I purchased the following T-shirt off the nets last week:

 I thought it was cool. However, upon showing mine housemates, I was informed that the children were not the happy specimens I had hitherto assumed them to be. They are (as Stu put it), Retards.

Excellent, I may have bought the most offensive T-shirt since a uni mate of mine wore his “Fuck Jesus” jumper to a Bingo night. The fule.

Please tell me they are naught more than happy chidlers… Please…?

Laters.

xx

I am sorry for the last entry. Oh yes.

I remember being angry about something on the way into work this morning, but I have absolutely no idea what it was. I think it was something to do with .. aha! I remember.

I am absolutely, utterly, completely pig-ranting sick of cover versions of songs. I hate the way that smug music types feel the need to “re-imagine” decent tunes in their chosen genre, and in doing so, achieve nothing more than to make them selves look even more bereft of creativity. I’m one of those music Nazis, who thinks that genuine talent comes from the ability to not only warble a decent tune, but also to create (ie write) one too. This is the X-Factor-factor. Nowadays, and awld tit with a trendy haircut and a power-ballads CD can be feted by the popular media as a “musical talent”. It’s interesting to compare these people to those slogging away on the club scene with no real recognition, The only difference is that they have: a) stolen the face of a two year old child; b) Listened to enough early Mariah Carey to know that hitting more than one octave in a single phrase can occasionally work; or c) prepared a suitable heart-warming story, usually involving some form of socially-crippling affectation or life-threatening illness. And if you’re attractive, then so much the better. I know that looks have always played a part in popular music, but fck me, if it hasn’t become the be-all and end all. We are even now at the point where some ratty little fucker with buck teeth can be given a “make-over” (tin-tin fringe / mullet and shiny suit for the boys, cack weave and leggings for the girls) and turned into a sex symbol whereas before you would have ignored them on the street.

I’m interested in which of the most popular artists of our day actually write their own songs. Call it a social experiment. Or something. So I’m referring to Auntie for The BBC’s Top Five Selling Albums of 2007. Woo-hoo. Prepare ye the way for the “talent”, and let’s see if they actually write any of the stuff that they produce from their geet mouths. And for good measure, are they sexy?

1) Amy Winehouse. Now don’t get me started. I’m being impartial.

Writes? Co-writes (which sounds suspiciously like “adds the word ‘hey’ a lot”, but I actually think she’s probably a bit better than that.)

Sexy? Errr, I don’t think that was how she was marketed. (?)

Can sing? Say what you like, and I can’t stand her, but by God she can sing.

2) Leona Lewis. Our first entry from the world of the post X-Factor marketing machine.

Writes? Same as above, but with added cynicism. Oh, and neither of her biggest hits were hers.

Sexy? Pretty, but over-glammed to obvious effect.  Proof that even a plain, slightly horse-faced young lady can be transformed into… er, Mariah Carey before she misplaced her sanity.

Can sing? The benevolent liberal in me says that a decent enough Whitney Houston impression is very hard to do. The bastard in me tells me that the producer has this machine, right? And it makes people sound good…

3) Mika. He’s Lebanese. He’s camper than a leather wigwam. He can sing really high about happee things. I love him even though it’s wrong.

Writes? Yes. Occasionally with others, but so far the one with the most solo-written hits. Go team Mika!

Sexy? Yes. He’s not exactly been marketed as a munter, has he?

Can sing? Yes. Even if you hate it, he’s not your usual male singer, being that he tends to hit notes that even the castrati balked at.

4) Take That. Which makes me very, very happy.

Writes? 11 of the 12 tracks on their new album are written by the band. Not just Gary Barlow, you know.

Sexy? They started off dancing in lycra for gays. Yes.

Can sing? It took a while, but I suppose they can.

5) Westlife. No comment. The bile would erode my keyboard.

Write? Almost every song they do is a cover. They are Daniel O’Donnell for the 21^st Century.

Sexy? I can hardly bring myself to say it, but apparently, people fancy them.

Can sing? I reckon one or two can. The others simply mug furiously and perform the key-change dip when required. And do that hand on heart thing on their stools. For fuck’s sake.

So, we can see that I’m probably wrong. Most artists at least have a hand in their songs. But Christ, Westlife at number five? The top five besy selling album of 2007? Bloody hell, this country is wank.

Let’s reassess so that I at least seem to be slightly right.

Mark Ronson.

Mark effffffffing Ronson.

Mark “I can make a hit out of a song that somebody else wrote simply by adding a cocking trumpet” Ronson.

Mark “let’s make Radiohead a trumpety playtime” Ronson.

Mark “I blow my trumpet where Ra declines to drive his chariot” Ronson.

I rest my case.

Just finished watching that stupid ass Tom Cruise video. I mean, why are people getting so het up about something that even a devotee fails utterly to explain to an audience of fellow-devotees?

Can you imagine the Pope in his Easter sermon saying:

“Well it’s like I see a car accident and I know I’m the only one who can help… We have to get out there and do this thing… It’s rough and tumble, but it’s a blast, and I’d like to go on holiday, but I can’t, I mean, I just have to get out there and do it. We can do some stuff and you know, help, and I’m just, you know, with Protestants and that, cancelling them from my area…”

Hardly stirring stuff, unless you happen to work as a bounty hunter for Mrs Johnson’s Friendly Sanatorium and Day Spa, is it?

Anyway, hope everyone had a good Christmas and all that: I did and now feel typically gash for being back at work. I’ve got wireless though, now, thanks to the wonderful, patient and utterly comfortable Joseph Quinn. He made my modem talk to my router. I think he arranged to meet them separately in a bar and then “remembered” a prior appointment. It means that I can now play on the internet (Boing Boing being my latest obsession) in bed and that Stu can frag n00bs or whatever without having to face my wrath. He actually tried to reason that I was only “looking at crap” the other night. I pointed out that compared to shouting down a headset “Take the base! Good job team!”, my perusal of Cyberpunk knitting patterns was vital to the survival of the human race. I’m considering a Cthulhu embroidery for over the mantle, too. I just need to get the sizing right and remember how to sew from the days when primary school still imposed crafts and not computer programming or whatever.

Speaking of which, we have a competition running at work in conjunction with the Safety Camera Partnership (oh how popular this will make me with Jeremy Clarkson), where sixth form students can submit a safe driving DVD for national use. It made me feel old. Even when I was a media student at university, we still edited our projects on an ancient S-VHS deck at great personal cost. I suffered an entire cold in one day over that fucker, and cried much more than once while Hannah sat beside me going “TURN THE FUCKING DIAL! IT’S OUT OF SINK!”. Hannah’s nickname at university was Frau Farbissina. I wouldn’t have traded her for the entire world.

Nowadays, students seemingly have the means to produce DVD quality films at the first sign of facial hair, and I can only imagine the horrifying, smug bastards yelling “Cut!” at each other while they act out scenes of cloying morality. God, I’m bitter towards the youth at the minute. I think it’s because I actually said “they don’t make them like that any more” today during a discussion with my (older) colleagues about Calamity Jane.

Christ.

Well, I have to go and wash my hair – I told everyone at work that I was going swimming and I’m not going to shatter their illusions.

Even if my most strenuous effort tonight was dislocating my jaw to accommodate a potato the size of my head.

Laters.

xx

Trying to find new ways to conquer boredom is for me, much the same as thinking about what to have for tea or which channel to watch programmes about animals on. A constant battle; made no easier by the large swathes of time in which I have to fight it. As I’m sure you know, my job requires little or no responsibility outside of the hours of 8am to 5pm, so it’s easy to fall into the old trap of TV then bed, so I’m going to have to pull my finger out and take up a hobby. There’s reading, obviously, but that’s a standard tactic in this war, and seeing as I’m currently consuming novels in much the same way that Pete Docherty hoovers up every white powder he comes across, it’s not much of a challenge to be honest. There was a brief period about a month ago when Stu insisted on getting himself Xbox Live where I was allowed loose on the headset during various Halo 3 tournaments (se also large gap between blog entries), but the combination of myself and various American teenagers resulted in something akin to badger baiting. Take one defenceless yet feisty creature, place it in its natural habitat, allow it to forage about a bit, and then introduce an angry old bitch and see who wins. Oh yeah, I might not be able to actually work the controller due to my constantly flailing girl-hands, but with Stu doing the motor skills, I can certainly talk a good game. I just have to be careful not to confuse people too frequently with my asides of “Gillian! Gillian! David looks like she needs a piss!”, obviously.

No, that’s not good enough.

I might have been a little hasty last time when I said that I was certainly not dead, for not a day later my head filled with vile secretions and I ended up in my bed for almost seven days. Viral Sinusitis, which is impressively new for me and marks a definite diversification from my regular Tonsilitis and / or “feeling a bit shit”. This fucker is definitely an Illness with a capital I. I’m still not right now, and averaging 2400mg Ibuprofen a day, which I’m sure cannot be good. I can also taste/smell nothing but burnt tyres, and, not entirely unpleasantly for three minutes on Thursday, Parma Violets. That almost seemed like something pleasant, but I was soon back in burnt tyre land, poking about at a ginger pudding and asking for a taste commentary from The Mam as I went. (“It’s very sweet, with a hint of heat: Can you not even get that? Poor thing. Nom nom nom.”) I have also developed one of those irritating nasal voices which tend to indicate high intelligence – low social skills, and have therefore achieved what I always threatened to do. Without the high intelligence. And seriously, I’m not even going to try to describe some of the shit coming out of my face. The best was the other night when I blew my nose and performed the standard quick check (oh please, stop pretending that you don’t do it too) to find something a lot like my actual brain staring back at me in a lake of blood. I have, of course, saved that one for posterity.

God, even my sense of humour is warped. It must be the pressure on my brain.

Anyway, that’s what’s prompted the sudden urgent need for hobbies. If I had any, I could have put my poorly time to some use other than complaining and watching This Morning. I always liked the idea of being ill in bed and quilting or something – I think this might be a result of reading Little Women as a child – before laying back on my crisp white pillows with a sigh. Instead, I’ve been hurling my copy of The Fortean Times across the room and collapsing onto my sweaty pillow in my Aunty Clare’s old zip-up nightie. Mind you, this nightie is both blood red and floor length, so at the first sign of my strength returning I was leaping out from behind doors at Gillian and Stu going “NOBODY EVER EXPECTS THE SPANISH INQUISITION”, so fun was certainly to be had at moments. Each hilarious gag did tend to leave me clutching my forehead for about half an hour, but I feel that on balance it was worth it. Oh, and on Tuesday when The Mam came to take me home because I was starting to see things, The Dad opened the door with “Get in my bed now: the dog’s left it nice and warm” which about sums things up chez parents. I love them, and the dogs who had indeed made things all toasty for me.

I’m feeling much better now, but it’s definitely the last time I ever publicly declare that I’m not dead. You never know what might happen: I’ll let people work it out for themselves in future. And judging by my appearance and demeanour at work these days that may prove to be no mean feat.

I’m going to have to go. David’s got a hold of Aunty Hilda’s Christmas Present and she’s looking suspiciously inclined to lick it into next week. I hope I’m not the only person in the world with a cat that licks plastic bags in a somewhat sexy fashion. It would only serve to cement what I already know if I was: that everything in my life is some sort of joke.

Laters.

xx

I look like I’ve been in an accident. I shaved my legs with a Bic razor which was almost certainly made in the same place as my new shoes, and now I have no skin on my shins and no clean trousers for work. Do I wear a skirt and risk frightening children? Or do I call in sick with a mystery illness?

My life is so complicated.

Well, as you can see, if that’s the most complicated thing in my life (and it’s been on my mind all night), then there is absolutely naff all going on.

I did go to Leeds at the weekend to stay with Hannah. Kel came too and we had the best time. I even stayed an extra night and had to brave the train with all the horrid little emos coming back from the festival. The smell on the train was my favourite part of all. Hooray for camping and falafel!

I need a pint. And I’m thinking, a life.

PAYDAY TOMMORROW.

Which makes me happy.

Laters.

xx 

Right….

Fag – check.

Coffee – check.

Sense of deep futility and resentment – check.

I appear to be back…..

Now, let’s see….

Cats being amusing… Bored at work… No money… Fit men… Sleeping… General annoyance… Being drunk… Exes… Having one’s feet amputated… Sharks… The name “Gordon”…

I think I’m going to talk about my new shoes.

Now my new shoes were bought for six pounds from asos.com, primarily for the wearing of at work. I have had many problems in the past with the hot feet/wet feet dilemma; especially so seeing as this summer seems to have brought to us by the letters W, E and T, and the colour grey. Should I wear my boots, and thus preserve the non-squelching nature of my pink toes? Or should I wear my flip flops and enjoy some “kick-em-off” luxury at work? Or how about my black ballet pumps which meet the requirements of both? Well now, it’s a valid question, and one would think that the pumps should be the obvious answer. That is until one realises that they consist of “leather” uppers and what appears to be cardboard pulp soles. The combination of gackie street wet and an office with a thermostat set somewhere just south of the Sun, ensures a deeply horrifying combination of black sludge and fresh parmesan.

Therefore, action was required on my part, and being a tight bastard, six quid sandals seemed an ideal compromise. Imagine, if you will that my new shoes are a nippy coupe standing proudly on the forecourt of a respected, if reasonable, car dealership. The seller may direct your attention to the shining black paintwork; or the ventilation shafts down each flank. They would surely point out the magnificent strong chassis, and the roomy interior.

What they may fail to inform you, however, is that the overall impression would be marred slightly were they to admit that each sleek black item was manufactured in – no! not Vietnam as indicated – but the bowels of the Inferno by none other than the Dark Lord himself.

The shoes, designed as subtle instruments of torture (for they will spend at least one hour slipped lovingly over each foot), will begin by alerting the walking foot to the fact that the ankle straps are slightly too tight. This; seemingly annoying at first, will increase in urgency until around two o’ clock in the working day when upon standing you will find that you can no longer function normally an sidle crabwise to the nearest available surface with the express intention of collapsing pathetically against it. Looking at your poor, crippled feet, you will notice at once that what was once an admittedly sturdy ankle now resembles something more like a large Christmas ham suffering from a chronic encounter with a garrotting wire. This, although horrendous, is sadly not the worst that can happen.

The next day, erroneously believing that the straps must have given overnight (fool! They are made from PVC! Are you mad?!) you may even give the vile curs another chance. After all, the shoes are pretty. The shoes received comments from your co-workers. The shoes are caaaaaalling you. This will be your second mistake. This time, rather than sneakily cutting off the circulation throughout the day, your new ham legs will be up and doing before you even get to the bus stop. Aha! You can take the straps and stuff them under the arch of your foot! Clever you! Take that you patent Pol Pots! You now have a rather snazzy (feeling smug, aren’t we?) pair of sandals and your lymph system is back in action, baby.

Oho. Ohoho.

The shoes, forged in the very fires responsible for Hitler, HIV and Picture Loans adverts, have one last act of revenge up their (proverbially speaking) sleeves. Just as you start to think that things will be alright until you can tie them in a bag and throw them in the canal, the shoes deploy their hidden razor blade edges and promptly begin to gently slice away at the flesh on your toes. Every step, every flex, every breath brings a new dimension of pain, and you get to three o’ clock fully expecting the walls to shutter down and Pinhead to float out and congratulate you on passing the initiation. You finally take the cursed things off and prepare to potter about the office like Paul McCartney on the cover of Abbey Road. People notice and comment. You don’t care. Someone warns you that there might be drawing pins or staples lying about. You tell them to bring it on: Nothing could be worse than having two mishapen, slashed, peeled and throbbing appendages where your precious feet used to be. It’s all good.

Until hometime comes around and you find that somehow the vicious little fucks have managed to shrink two sizes and develop an odd squeak which vibrates through the raw flesh with each, step.

Ladies and gentlemen; as I write this with my feet in a bowl, I give you the most evil shoes to ever walk this Earth:

Coming soon to an Iraqi bunker near you.

Laters.

Xx

PS: I feel better for sharing.

PPS: Don't be fooled. They really are sick. Sick, I tell you!  

Bruce could feel his brain swollen in his skull; delicate fronds of pain slithering about as the cranium peeled itself slowly from the lining of his head. He opened one eye tentatively, feeling each increase in light as acutely as a surgeon’s knife. The clock said it was three minutes past ten. Surely the clock lied.

Please God, the clock was lying.

It wasn’t.

He heaved himself upright, still with only one eye daring to brave the morning sun that was streaming through the curtains. He was late, and that was all there was to it; regardless of the protestations of his body. The funeral was starting at eleven. The funeral which was his last chance to say goodbye to the man he had been working with since he was 19. He rolled off the bed and dragged himself into the bathroom and yet brighter light. It was his own fault, after all, and he had promised Hazel he would be there. So he would be. The hangover would have to do its stuff regardless.

He didn’t dare take the car that morning, and the bus was just unreliable enough for him to instinctively call a cab to get him to the chapel. Frank had not been a religious man, but Hazel had always found solace in the drafty spaces between Catholicism and real life , so that seemed to be the final word. His friend was to be interred in a church; spoken about by a man who had not known him since he and Hazel had stepped forward together at their wedding twenty years previously. Frank had lost hair and gained three children since that time, and Bruce shuddered slightly to think of their faces at the service. He made a mental note that he would be there for Hazel, and nothing more. He would sit quietly, absorb as much as he could stand, and then leave. Nothing more. It would kill him.

The cab driver was an almost intolerably cheerful young Asian man, and Bruce worried about his driving skills. (He had failed to take in the sombre suit; the red eyes and the fact that they were headed for the funeral chapel, and process this combination of clues enough to shut up about the Town and their chances of avoiding relegation.) Bruce knew that he could, feasibly, just tell the guy to shut up, but he didn’t feel like pissing anyone off, so he nodded, smiled and chattered back like a wind-up monkey banging away at its little drum all the way there. He felt better about not making a fuss when the young guy turned to him for his fare and wished him all the best at a difficult time. Perhaps he’d simply been trying to cheer me up, thought Bruce. Poor bugger that I am.

If he’d been concerned about the sobriety of the occasion that morning, a look around the chapel allayed some of those fears. Bruce had been to a fair few funerals in his time, but he had never seen so many turn out to pay their respects. Hazel, who he had secretly suspected would be wailing in some black lace veil, wore an elegant tailored suit in the brightest white Bruce had ever seen.

“Frank bought it for me for our anniversary next week” she said as she pressed herself into his chest at the door. When she pulled away, he saw the sadness there in her eyes, but she was smiling at him in such a way that he felt almost comforted. And, regrettably, he thought, in a way that made him feel fairly inappropriate feelings during the funeral of a best friend.

Even the three Anderson children seemed at ease, despite the red look to their eyes. Anne-Marie - the eldest at 21 - had even kissed Bruce on the cheek in greeting with a maturity and elegance that stunned him. Is this what it will be like when I go? He thought. Of course not Bruce, a voice inside told him. No family, not even a bird to speak of… you’ll have a couple of funeral directors and your next-door neighbours – and that’s only because there will be mini sausage rolls at the wake, and those two would run the London Marathon if they thought there was a free pie in it. He shuddered and took some solace in the fact that it was one awkward social situation that he would actually not have to witness. Depressingly, this thought led him on to the idea of being buried alive, and he had a sudden, stupid urge to run up the aisle and prise the lid off the coffin to check his friend wasn’t still breathing. The hangover was in full flow now - he could feel it placing its nasty fingers across his skull and infiltrating his mind with horrifying thoughts.

How could Frank be dead? Fucking dead? Dead was what happened after you’d held your first great-grandchild, and then merrily reverted back to infancy in a man-size nappy and got people in to puree your food for a couple of years. It wasn’t ever designed as a concept for 41 year-old men who could still build patios and play five-aside every Sunday. Not for men who hadn’t even got to see their first kid graduate, or had a chance to go bowling on a weekday when they retired. Death before retirement is one of life’s greatest jokes, he thought, and wished it had been him standing beneath that great, looming, metallic crane as it toppled and finally fell only a week before. Frank had a family. Bruce had never even owned a dog.

********************************