My blog has become a bit of a fixation for me over the last few weeks - if I didn't have this small online therapy I think a lot of stuff would start to fall out of my mouth in weird places. Not spades or cartons of orange juice or anything, I mean words etc. I think if I tried to carry spades and cartons of orange juice in my mouth they would fall out but it wouldn't be much of a surprise to me as I'd have had to put them in there first of all in order for them to now fit and fall back out.
I feel it's important for you to know that between the last paragraph and the next one I tried to finish my tea but forgot I'd left the tea bag in and had the unpleasant sensation of a warm soggy bag falling to my face. This must be where the expression teabagging comes from? And if so, I fully applaud all the dedication it must take from the teabagger to boil his testes in iodine to get the desired effect. Full marks.
Recently I've not been able to blog totally sensibly and this is because life turned a bit bat shit mental for reasons that weren't really appropriate to blog about. Once the court proceedings are over I'll be able to talk about it in full detail but until they've found the bicycle bell and identified the muddy footprint on the back of my dress it's just not ok. I just hit the Edinburgh wall. I'd been warned about the wall and it should have been ok - but I didn't realise it would come at me from all angles all at once.
I've talked a lot about my expired car crash of a previous relationship and I don't particularly want to go into it in any more detail but it's been coming back to haunt me lately. And not in a Caspar the Friendly Ghost kind of way but more like an advert for wearing your seatbelts kind of a way. I think its the homesickness - I'm a terror for being homesick. I thought by the age of 23 I'd be alright with being away from home for long periods of time but yesterday my sister and I actually arranged a fake picnic in Bradford (somewhere we assumed might be halfway between Somerset and Edinburgh) right down to the detail of who would bring what pringles. Interesting? In so much as it turns out we both have exactly the same expectations on picnic food, yes. Otherwise, not particularly!
I promised myself today I would actually blog about some real stuff and all that to see whether the nonsense blogs are just good naturedly suffered by you dear reader in order to get to the comedy gold, never exaggerated, egocentric review of my life to date. I suspect it isn't - I suspect you've already stopped reading. In which case the rest of today's blog can just be a list of insults aimed at you.
Not as much as your blog.
Foiled! Heckled by my own imagination. And fingers. They are important too because they do the typing. But not my baby fingers. Unless it's the shift key.
See? This is what happens when you ask me to be serious for a moment. Not that you did ask. But maybe you should expressly tell me not to so that this sort of thing doesn't become a regular occurrence?
So - what has happened to me in the last few days? Well, and in no particular order here goes -
We had a flat night in last night. Not one where we all squashed each other, wore well ironed clothes and ate pizza whilst making paper chains. But one where everyone who lives in our flat stays in. It was a lovely night wit candles and cooking and indie films. Delightful. Two of our flatmates are vegetarian so the other two cooked a vegetarian cottage pie/shepherds pie...what do you call it when it's quorn? Er, maybe an arable pie? It's difficult to tell. The results of the four of them eating this meal around the table while I lay on the sofa went as follows -
They were all happily chowing down when Veggie 1 comments,
"What an excellent flavour this "(insert decision on name of pie) pie" has. I usually really struggle to make Quorn taste of anything."
Which really does beg the question - why the hell would you eat Quorn then?
But then Meatie 1 replies with,
"Yeah, I used a shit load of beef stock to get it like this."
At which point the sort of silence falls over the room that could suffocate babies and old people simultaneously. It was the sort of silence that would happen if your Grandad announced a stiffy during Antiques Roadshow.
Veggie 1 politely retched but managed to keep it in her mouth. It was interesting site - I placed a silent bet in my head as to whether her eyes or dinner would be the first thing to come flying out of her head.
Veggie 2 sort of shrugged and decided she liked the dinner enough to ignore the faces staring back at her.
Meatie 2 had his back to me but from the tops of his ears I could see he was either practising the sort of blushing that only professional Santas need around December, or he was actually dying inside and his blood was rushing to his face like Titanic passengers hunting for a lifeboat. Either way - it did nothing to lift the monumental hush that had descended over our street. It was the sort of silence that people must have noticed nearby as I'm fairly certain it actually must have absorbed noise other people had started to make. Any conversations happening in the flat below probably resulted in the residents wondering if they were suddenly in a silent movie as their words rushed up through our floorboards to try and kill the awkward moment.
Meatie 1 was at this point desperately trying to convince herself and everyone else that there probably wasn't any meat in beef oxo cubes anyway. It was probably just brown sauce, vinegar and dirt carefully smushed together to make a brown cube of intense flavour.
I did contemplate leaving my position on the sofa and going to check at this point so that we could either pump Veggie 1s stomach or let her carry on eating without having to sterilise the broccolli before each mouthful.
At this point Meaties 1 and 2 disappeared to the kitchen and came back carrying the innocuous red box. Turns out beef oxo cubes do contain beef. Shocker. I've never seen cottage/shepherd's/arable pie look embarrassed but it somehow managed it.
Other things that have happened to me include a guest for QIMP turning up in two wigs, a poncho and a fake moustache and insisting on being called Matthew Kelly for the duration. A small child who cried at the start of my gig at Mirth Control this morning but then hugged me by the end. Oh, and I ate so many carrots yesterday that my poop is entirely orange today.
There. hopefully I've filled my realism quota. Opinions? Nope. Good.