Listen up: it's hell out there.
This week’s ramblings have taken a bit of a dark turn. Sometimes I can be bumbling along in my life going lalalalalala until suddenly a dark cloud descends and it all goes a bit Pete Tong in my head.
It’s Piers Morgan’s fault. I half watched a programme he did about Dubai and the fabulousness thereof which I had Sky Plussed for later enjoyment during one of my increasingly regular bouts of pre-menopausal insomnia. I don’t even like hot countries on account of my crabbitness in the face of anything hotter than an early Spring day but it all looks so fabulous doesn’t it? All sunny and fabulous. It put me in a right mood.
To be fair to Piers, I was teetering on the edge of the precipice of a downer anyway. Staring blankly down the barrel of a gloomy week, full of things that require sorting, which I’ve been procrastinating over since…oh…December 2008. I have various embarrassing online impulse purchases lurking in dark places which require sending back. I can’t do it yet. It’s too hard.
It means retrieving the garments, brushing the cat hair off, attempting to fold the garments, locating the original packaging, locating a roll of sellotape, foraging in the rummage drawer for a pen, getting distracted by the novelty spaghetti twirler fork and absent-mindedly switching it on/off/on/off/on/off/on/off before sighing wearily and putting it back in the rummage drawer, trying to remember what I was originally attempting to find, and giving up. I’ll send that stuff back tomorrow. I’ll get up early to do it, so that I’m all fresh and perky and quick-witted enough to locate everything required for the packaging and despatching. I can’t function after 7pm. It’s all I can do to slump slack-jawed in front of the telly, grunting.
I also need to pay some bills - the mere thought of which makes me want to take to my bed. I’ll need to find that stupid card reader thing the bank sent me. I’m the Queen of all gadgets, but I don’t understand that thing. It just gives me yet another reason to procrastinate over bill paying.
The Wi-Fi also needs a-fixing. What is WRONG with that thing? Why is it so temperamental? Jeez. It’s not like I don’t pay it enough attention, although to be fair, angrily flicking the router switch emphatically OFF and then emphatically ON again and screeching ‘WORK YOU BLEEPITY BLEEPITY BLEEPING BLEEP OF A BLEEPER’ probably won’t scare it into transmitting and receiving or whatever Wi-Fi deems to do when it can be bothered to do it. Woe is me.
Fairly low down on the list of things that require doing is to brave the dust bunnies under the bed. I hate getting my hands dirty. Literally. Dust and other dirty stuff gives me the boak. Bin juice gives me the überboak and I’m incapable of emptying the bin. Instead I just keep compressing more and more stuff in to it in the manner of Homer Simpson until somebody else empties it. I’d rather sell the chuffing house than empty the chuffing bin.
You’re probably thinking that I need to get a grip. You’re probably right too. I might start by making a list. That requires a bit of paper and a pen. Which leads me to the rummage drawer. Where that stupid novelty spaghetti twirler fork lives. Cue sighing and further procrastination. Sigh.
