Thursday, 1 December 2011

Nothing says 'I love you' like a tip-exed circle with Happy Mother's Day! scratched out of the middle.

As many of you may remember (and by many, I mean the three people that actually read this blog), my sister recently hurt her hand in an accident at work. We tried to get her on one of the adverts, but she just wasn't television material and slicing your hand open isn't as hilarious as a woman getting her foot caught in some tape and falling over, which is understandable. Anyway, she is mostly on the way to being fixed and has thus regained the ability to drive. I can't say I feel 100% safe watching her steer with her newly deformed claw, but at least it's not my mother driving. I've realised over the years that I am a terrible backseat driver - even before I passed my test. I have a very vivid memory of my mother shouting, "Amy, who's got their licence and who hasn't?" at me as I tried to helpfully direct her outside the co-op. I may not have my licence, but I have eyes and I can see the car you're about to crash into... (She did crash into it, by the way, and I don't think a formal apology has ever been made. Mother, if you're reading this, yes I accept cheques). She may be a questionable driver, but she's good at dishing out the advice - "you've just got to keep your eye on everyone these days," she told me the other day after she was accidentally over-charged 4p for a grapefruit...

In retrospect, I should probably be clinging to any piece of life advice I can get my hands on, the way my life seems to pan out. Last week I got a letter from my old best friend the Student Loans Company, and if anything ever made me feel less of an intellectual than I already do, filling out the horrendous forms they sent me would be it. I spent at least half an hour rooting through my Box of Important Things before I found all the correct reference numbers and ID codes - although, granted, finding them would probably have been easier if my Box of Important Things wasn't filled with not so important things, i.e. a space hopper puncture repair kit. Being in charge of important things like this always makes me panic. I mean, I can't even get my mum a Mother's Day card without messing it up. Seriously. One year I went to the 'mum' section in Clintons, picked out a socially acceptable card, and then it wasn't until I got it home and started to write it that I realised it actually said Happy Birthday! in it... Nothing says 'I love you' like a tip-exed circle with Happy Mother's Day! scratched out of the middle...

I feel like I have somewhat excelled myself in terms of exercise this week - at the moment, my dad is dogsitting for his friend's dog (obviously) and as such I somehow let myself be conned into walking him. If you've ever put a lead on a grizzly bear and walked it to the pub, you will be slightly closer to understanding what I went through when I was walking Roly. This dog is a monster. He pulled so hard that my shoulder popped out of its socket (it sometimes does that) and he only calmed down when we were about a minute from the pub and another dog barked at him in a manner that was, although useful, not very friendly. Still, I think it gave me some well needed exercise - the other day I looked in one of those mirrors that makes you look skinny, and whilst everyone else looked anorexic, I just looked like a normal person... Also, when I was walking to work, a man was riding his bike uphill faster than I was moving. For a while, we stayed at the same pace and the only sound was my uncomfortably loud breathing - I felt making small talk whilst I was in the middle of a premature heart attack and breathing like a sex fiend would somehow not be considered acceptable...

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