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So this morning I had to go to hospital for an appointment. As most will probably know, attending hospital is never the epitome of the carpe diem experience, especially at 9 o’clock in the morning. Anyhow, as I am usually found to be of the disposition somewhere between grumpiness and all-out nuclear, I decided to try and be pleasant for a change. Pleasant. Me. Fucking ‘pleasant’. But I thought I’d give it a go.

I managed about 40 minutes. That’s because there is always someone who will piss you off at a hospital. And my theory didn’t disappoint. After my appointment was done, I had to see the receptionist, the one who had been put in charge of meeting and greeting the public and booking further appointments. To say she wouldn’t be earning any extra points for being ‘People Person of the Day’ is a fucking understatement. She was positioned somewhere between Vicky Pollard, ‘Am I bovvered’ Lauren, and Iain Duncan Smith.

I’ll just let that image hang there for a second.

Once my communications with the receptionist from Hell were completed, and managing to refrain from raising my voice (just an eyebrow), I started to make my way towards the exit, quite cheery that it hadn’t been as bad as I thought it would be. Huzzah! Hooray! I’m not the ogre I’ve always known I am people paint me to be! I can actually be civil in the face of hostility! Well ‘ark at me.

 

My drama teacher always said I was presumptuous.

Outside, whilst waiting for my lift, I lit up a celebratory cigarette. I smoke menthol cigarettes [momentary pause while you swear/curse/call me a dick, etc] Finished? Great. I’ll continue. So there I was, basking in my civility achievements and dreaming of being the next global peace ambassador, when a gentleman walked past. I noticed he kept staring at me with a look of oddness in his eyes. He started to walk off, stopped, turned and came up to me. I have tried to recall the conversation as accurately as possible word-for-word, anyway here is it how it went:

“You. YOU!!!!”

(Me): “Uhm, yes?”

“You make me SICK”

“Thanks!”

“How DARE you. Where’s your respect for God’s sake?”

“Ok. We’ve established I make you sick. You’re not the first and I dare say you’ll be the last. Are we going to leave the pleasantries there or would you care to elaborate on what I’ve done, besides share air, that’s pissed you off?”

“Smoking that grass, or ash, or whatever you call it. Outside a hospital. Have you no shame?”

Now I was really perplexed.

“What the bloody hell are you going on about?”

“THERE! IN YOUR HAND! THAT WHITE THING. DON’T TELL ME IT ISN’T DRUGS. I KNOW IT IS. YOU CAN’T FOOL ME”

Ah. Penny drops. Menthol are white, so while I’m holding the cigarette towards the inside of my hand and being careful not to engulf passers-by with the smoke from my own nicotine stick (because I’m a courteous smoker, even in open air), I realise that it could probably look like I am smoking a roll-up of some kind.

“Ah, right. Well, these are menthol cigarettes. Not only are these menthol cigarettes, but if I was smoking drugs then you would have caught the smell of it due to it being very, very windy. So while I can understand your concern and admire you for approaching the issue, I do not admire the way you addressed it. As it happens, you’ve caught me on a good day. Can we just agree that a mistake was made here and go on our separate ways?”

“No. Because I don’t believe you”

So I get out my packet of menthol cigarettes to prove to this man (and also the growing numbers of onlookers who just happened to be milling around outside/looking for something in their bag/pretending to be on the phone) that I wasn’t smoking weed/ash/the mastermind behind an international drugs cartel – but was in fact just smoking a cigarette and trying to mind my own fucking business. I was also losing my patience. Rapidly.

“You may say that what is inside your cigarette packet are cigarettes. You can say anything you want.”

This guy was really starting to get on my rack.

“Look. I really, really don’t want to stand here arguing with you. This is a menthol cigarette, okay? I’m sure if you questioned every person who came out of that door, you may just find someone else who either smokes them or is aware of them and hates them or at least knows what they bloody look like. I don’t appreciate people smoking drugs in public, especially in places like this where this a chance small children or babies will be at smoke-level” (Note: I wasn’t just saying this stuff for shits and giggles, I genuinely do feel this way and have got into many an argument in the past when my son was small).

Ok. I am really trying now. Really trying to A) Make this twat see sense and B) Not get myself arrested.

Moron was having none of it.

“Oh, I see. You think you’re smart”

“Huh?”

“In case you have forgotten, Margaret Thatcher is being buried today. So instead of thinking about your roll-ups, how about you think about what a fantastic woman she was and what she did for this country?”

He wasn’t wearing anything red but he might as well have been.

“You know what? As much as I would love to continue this tête-à-tête, please, for the good of mankind and my blood pressure, just fuck off”

Which is probably what I should have just said in the first place.

 

 

Hello. I haven’t posted here in a very long time. I always think of things I want to rant about and think “Ah! I have that blogger thingy, I can rant there” but then a scandal will break out on twitter or I go and eat cake and can’t be arsed by the time I remember what I wanted to rant about. Anyway, I will endeavour to start using this more in future, not that anybody will be that bothered (fuck – even I’m not that bothered) but here’s a taster of my current mood Image

Live long and prosper and shit,

Best,

D.

I cried tonight. I cried last night. I cried the night before. I have spent the whole of August bloody crying. Not because of a boyfriend or shoes that didn’t fit or milk that’s on the turn. This is different crying.

Prior to the London 2012 games, I was one of the “meh” people. We’d heard about all the negatives of this for 7 years; the spiralling debts, the building problems, the security issues. Right up to the wire there were still problems, so expectation was minimal and I admit I expected it to just pass us all by. Well how wrong I was. Because the Olympics turned out to be absolutely fucking brilliant.

What was so different this time? I think the difference now is that social media offers a platform to share feelings with other people, whether you know them or not. It’s like sitting on a massive sofa in a massive pub watching a massive telly after a dodgy wedding. So when athletes were competing and I was sitting here sofa-running or sofa-swimming with them and then cried when they won and cried again when they got the medals (I got SO sick of the National Anthem – it was like being Rick-Rolled on a constant bloody loop), I knew there were thousands of others doing exactly the same because we were all talking about it, sharing it and crying about it. There was such a resplendent vibe about, everyone was happy, proud, smiling. (Well, with the exception of Piers Morgan who was doing his nut about athletes not singing the anthem thus not helping the kids at Great Ormond Street – never mind the emotion the athletes felt, it was all about Piers Morgan but that’s a different grumble and I’m really trying not to bang on about it here even though I’ve already started.)

My point is this country has been in the shits for ages now. People of all ages are pissed off with the government, there has been nothing but bad news spewing out of the publishing houses, we’ve had so many dips in recession I’ve lost count. But the Olympics managed to do something rather extraordinary. It managed to give everyone something positive to focus on, to feel good about, a collective cheer at every success and a collective “bloody good effort” at every attempt. It managed to distract from the 24/7 crap, even the finger-pointing laughter at Boris dancing like a grandad with piles at the closing ceremony was done with a light heart. It gave us all a much needed break. And it’s been brilliant.

And now the Paralympics are having exactly the same effect. Even more so, maybe, because of the additional talents of the exceptional athletes. One can only imagine how difficult it must be to run on blades, to race with no vision, to propel their chairs at such speed using every ounce of strength they have. These people not only face challenges every day, they challenge themselves further by utilising their talents and competing on the world’s biggest stage. Of course, not all of us are athletes. Not all of us are disabled. Not all of us are able-bodied. Not all of us are out of work. Not all of us are in work. Not all of us are able to work. We are all different and we all face different challenges. But on a personal level, the athletes have inspired me to say a massive “fuck you” to the challenges I personally face and to make the best of what I am still able to do. And judging by some tweets I’ve seen, others feel the same too.

We’re only 3 days in and already twitter is a collective again. I like it. I like it a lot.

HUZZAH. He’s gone, she threw him out 3 days ago. Positioned in the kitchen, I heard the whole thing in high def and as he was making claims on ‘his belongings’ I grabbed a notepad and took an inventory. (Yes, I will have a long talk with myself once I have finished writing this). Along with his clothing, he took a strimmer, a non-stick frying pan and 3 onions. He then started to depart while exchanging swear words with his now ex-girlfriend. The usual “faaaak orrf” “nah, YOUUU faaaak orrrf” was in residence, which made me feel disturbingly warm inside. While I was being poked in the eye by my conscience for witnessing this event I was nearly at the point of combustion with glee. I would imagine I resembled a human, but confused, Mount Etna. But that be the current status and it has been lovely and peaceful.

I quite like this blogging lark. There has been lots going on this week in the news that has boiled my bladder, plus I expect I will soon be writing about my 14 year old son who truly believes he is 24 and has the disposition of a hormonal King Kong on all days ending with ‘y’.

Until then, live well and prosper, peoples.

Hello. I’ve only tried blogging once before and ended up sounding like I had escaped from the Priory a week before my due date. Having learnt absolutely nothing, I’m giving it another go (and also because twitter only allows 140 characters which wouldn’t give you enough to write the bloody shopping list)

Now the pleasantries are done, I digress.

My neighbours, who I have lived next door to for 6 years, have for some reason this year grated on my last nerve. Whether this is due to an age v’s tolerance thing, or just because I have suddenly realised that they are completely fucking barmy, I don’t know. But I am at that point of sneering every time I hear them. When I say my neighbours, one side is ok. They’re elderly, the husband likes making things and the wife likes a drink. But she’s a happy drunk who isn’t into modern ‘music’ so that’s fine. It’s the other side, the woman with ‘That Boyfriend Thing’, whose arguments I have listened to since 2006, who once took their argument outside and she chased him round my car with a raw chicken and proceeded to throw his under garments out of the window. (The local kids who were watching the debacle picked up one of said items and threw them in the tree, where they sat for ages, swinging in the wind like some Woodstock leftover).

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Jim Royle (that hairy fella)

Year upon year such arguments have taken place, their script has become so predictable that I can recite it by heart and often have to stop myself from intervening if That Boyfriend Thing misses his cue. All this used to make me chuckle, now it makes me Jim bloody Royle (that hairy fella). Why has this happened and who are these people? Well, she is a Grandmother, 50 something, he rides a bike and is in his late 40′s. Age doesn’t matter, ‘social class’ (YUK) doesn’t matter, but manners and consideration do. And I’m from the school that doesn’t care if you were born with a penny or a pint or a Porsche, manners matter.

As does consideration.

Yes, I know when you’re in the middle of a row with your other half, niceties and caring what other people think can go completely out of the window (depending on where you are and the severity of the ‘crime’) and I’ve been guilty of it myself, but this happens every week, at least twice. And I want to throw things at them. My weapon of choice ranges from tomatoes (minimal impact) to bricks (on-target contact) and I want to tell them how bloody stupid they are and that clearly this union is never going to work so why don’t the pair of them just fuck off from each other. But I don’t. Because as gobby as I can be, I still have that London commuting reserved thingy instilled in me where we just observe, raise our brows and look at the adverts.

So now we are considering moving, not because of them, but this year they have certainly been a contributing factor. So instead of shouting over the fence, I’ll just call them a pair of fuckwits on here if that’s ok.

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