Thursday, 21 March 2013

It Started With London, It Ended With Pissing In A Bucket. (As All The Best Posts Do).

London's awful, isn't it?

Well, OK, no. Not really. London is amazing. But there are definitely some elements of it that I detest. Numero uno - rush hour. I hate rush hour in London for two reasons. The first, unsurprisingly, is feeling like a baked bean in a tin that is being repeatedly shaken by an unrelenting two-year-old. Not that I don't enjoy engaging in accidental frotteurism, of course, because who doesn't love a stranger rubbing themselves up against them? I'd just like to have to option to disengage should I wish to. The second and most distressing reason is having to see, and occasionally inappropriately rub up against, people in expensive suits coming home from their successful jobs. These people never bothered me before, but over the years their age has gradually crept closer to mine, or mine to theirs - either way, one of these days, I am worried that I will bump into some degenerate imbecile from my secondary school and have to explain to them that, whilst they are in a top paid job that requires all of its employees to wear an expensive suit, I am still working in a farm shop and am on occasion required to turn up to work in a crocodile suit for Red Nose Day. (Don't get me wrong, getting to go to work in a crocodile suit absolutely made my week (I feel no need to embellish), but a person of higher esteem than myself may find this behaviour beneath them). It's not that I don't have the ability to find a better job, of course. I am full of that innovative spark that fancy employers are always looking for - only last week did I spend a significant amount of time thinking up hilarious names for future pets with my sister. For cats, we thought of David Meowie, Chairman Meow and Jean-Claw van Damme, for dogs, Virginia Woof and Alan Sation, for birds, Jack Quack, and for cows (we live in Yorkshire - we can't rule anything out), Moo Reed. I'm not going to lie and say these were all just thought up in one flash of inspiration - I've been sitting on Alan Sation for a good few years now, I'm just waiting for the right time to buy an alsation so I can use it. Surprisingly, that time has yet to present itself...

It's not just working 45 hour weeks that makes getting an alsation improbable, but also the fact that I cannot afford to buy and keep a large dog. Or a small dog, for that matter, even if I could keep it in my bag. I've recently begun to realise that, given that I am almost 23, I am way past the age of being able to cling on to my mum's social classification and I am actually now poor. I don't just mean that I don't have any money (which, incidentally, I don't), but I am classed as an actual poor person. A mere cog in the working class machine, scraping the barrel for beer money and bus fare.You know that scene in Say Anything when the dad is sat in the bath in his clothes, all wide eyes and bitten nails, dramatic music playing in the background because his credit card has been declined and he realises he's got no money? That's going to be me one day. Only I won't be sat in the bath, because I won't be able to afford one. I'll be sat on a deck chair in a 10ft by 10ft room that is only called the living room because it would seem incongruous to call it a walk-in wardrobe, which is what it more accurately resembles. If this were the olden days, I would be shivering in a one bedroom house (that I shared with my 7 kids and two other families), stealing loaves of bread from the market and pissing in a bucket in the garden.

Monday, 18 March 2013

I Never Even Liked My Wisdom Teeth Anyway

Almost six weeks. That is how long it has been since I've written a blog, so before you all start thinking the worst and putting my face on the side of milk cartons, I thought I'd better whack one out and put your minds at ease. I know you've all been out of your minds with worry, and now you've realised that I'm not dead or missing, you might start feeling angry and hurt that I have left you in the lurch. Don't be sad, though. It's not you, it's me. I've been extremely busy lately (drinking coffee and listening to angsty nineties' female rock), but mostly I've just been very stressed and traumatised as my dentist informed me that I have to have my wisdom teeth ripped out of my face and I have not been able to think about anything else since.

I knew my wisdom teeth were going to be a massive drain on my emotional wellbeing as soon as they first started to come through when I was seventeen. I think it was around the same time I failed my first driving test, which, incidentally, did not make me feel very wise but rather left me extremely resentful of my new teeth's uselessness. After their first failing, they did not provide me with any extra wisdom at all over the next five years and I eventually just resigned myself to the fact that they were four painful, nonfunctional, annoying additions to my life (much like I imagine children would be). In addition to this, they have apparently been growing at a 'difficult angle' and as a result I am going to have my gums peeled back and get the bastards removed. And before you all roll your eyes and even think about muttering the word melodramatic, just imagine what that will be like. My dentist actually used the phrase "peel your gums back" (thanks for sugarcoating it, Steve), and I am not exaggerating, that is actually what is going to happen. My gums are going to be peeled back. If I'd known that karma was taking note of my conversation with my dentist on the way in and my telling him he had "misunderstood what the word 'interesting' means" when he was talking about a TV show on antibiotics, then I would have stopped my backchat and began talking about the weather instead. As it is, I did not, and... well. I have learnt my lesson. Generally, Steve is a nice guy, and, when he's not ruining my life, we have a laugh and talk about music and travelling. Our friendship is ruined now, and I hope he knows, and regrets, it. What hurts the most is that I pay him a lot of money to be nice to me, and now I've had it thrown mercilessly back in my face. If he puts another toe out of line, I am going straight back to the NHS. (And before everyone gets on their high horse about me going to a private dentist - it isn't because I'm a snob. I'm not. I'm just like you, really! I only go private due to a highly unfortunate, freak accident when I was younger (that I'm sure could have just as easily happened to anyone else) involving my front teeth and the light pull in the bathroom at my dad's house. I'm not going to divulge exactly what happened as it makes me out to be a really thick human being, so that's a different story for a different day, but basically I ended up with a few false teeth and now I have to have a private dentist. Who, incidentally, is going to rip my remaining real teeth out with a pair of pliers). The only thing that can ease the pain of this hideous situation is if the amount of sedation I am given is equal to that which would be given to a horse. (Maybe not enough to kill me, but at least enough to make me have the greatest time in hospital and entertain the idea of rekindling my friendship with Steve).

In other news, the snow is back. This is what I should have been talking about with Steve. If he's going to watch TV, he should watch the weather instead of shows about antibiotics - they have cliffhangers on the weather now. I'm not joking, I was watching it the other week and the weatherman said, "and we've got a GIGANTIC snowstorm coming! Find out where, in fifteen minutes." Who spends more than fifteen minutes watching the weather? I refused to take their bait and I did not tune back in fifteen minutes later. If I had, though, I'd have known that the snow was going to be in North Yorkshire, where I was going to be doing a horrendous and gruelling outside assault course with my sister and some of our friends. I can't remember whose idea it was originally, but I knew for certain, when running at top speed (well, top speed for me - slightly below average speed for the normal human) through snow and mud, then crawling on all fours under a giant net through a stream, that it was not mine. It was almost as traumatic as having to run cross country at school, where I was so slow that by the time I had finished my first lap of the school field, the teacher thought that it was my second and congratulated me on beating my own record.

In conclusion of today's blog, someone Googled 'my tit fell out' and was somehow directed here. Welcome, friend. I hope you found the consolation you were looking for. It happened to a girl in my swimming class once when I was in year 8, so don't feel alone. I'm not saying you'll never live it down, but she moved schools a month later...