Friday, October 31, 2003
What goes round ...
Last week, the Twat was given a couple of presents for his birthday by a friend who we regularly meet up with to go to the library. Afterwards we went on to a pub for a quick beer.
When the Twat picked up his bag he noticed that there was smoke coming up from underneath it. He'd put this plastic bag over a spotlight and it had been covering it for a good 45 minutes. The bag had been burnt through and there was a round, black burn on one of the presents.
When we got home, the Twat unwrapped the burnt present and to his delight saw that it was a 2004 calender of Kylie. And to my utter delight, each page has a burnt mark on it - May being the worst. It makes Kylie look as if, shall we say, she definitely doesn't like shaving her nether regions ?
Checklist.
In the event that my kids decide to pester me and all the neighbours tonight in the vain hope that they'll be showered with sweets and stuff, I've gone through my checklist.
1. Bat hairband - yes. I'm wearing it now.
2. Find tarantula broach. Found.
3. Put notice on the door telling them not to disturb me between 9-9.30 pm. (Eastenders). There's a note attached to the door handle.
4. Stick pumkin on kitchen window. (It's a cardboard one that we made years ago). No selotape - been used up by the kids.
5. Find little pumkin jar to put sweets in. Found. But no sweets - what to do ?
6. Buy sweets. Lots - the kids are chez Dad and Pretty Horrible Tits this week - they can be all 'hyper' there. Shit. The Twat's gone boozing with the rest of my colleagues. I need help.
7. Find my witch's broom. Found underneath C's bed.
8. Get the Twat to dress up. Shit again. He's not bloody here. I'll hide.
9. Go and have a cat-nap. Can't sleep.
While I'm snoozing, do pop over to Naked Blog and vote for me. See you in a bit.
The Twat's Observation of the Day.
TT : "So it's all my fault. I've been doing too much of that breathing thing again, haven't I ?"
Me : "Yes. So Stop."
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Can't Buy Me Love.
That, to me, is nothing but a song. Money can't buy you love, but it sure as fuck helps.
Last year, just after Christmas, Quarsan and I were aiming to go to Tanzania where he has a house, and take our vows. He had already picked out which of the 'important' elders he would ask to attend and then we'd decided to throw a party for the entire village, which, for a European, would cost about the equivalent as going to a restaurant, just the two of us. We didn't make it for the usual reasons. Piss.
I think we could this year, but obviously, flights out to Africa around Christmas are horribly expensive. So unless we split up before the end of this year, we are trying to get out to Tanzania sometime - we've given up caring when, to take our vows. Nothing legal, nothing on paper - but a shared, sacred moment.
Vomit-inducing isn't it ?
But I would really love to see a part of Q's past, his house .... even if it does involve a nest of black mambas under it and an outdoor loo and shower. If the bugs leave me alone - yes, tarantulas, I'm talking about you, I'll be fine. Except those malaria pills make me ill.
Which goes back to another song ... The Things You do For Love ....
A Party Political Broadcast by the Tory Party.The next Tory leader will once again be female, as only females know how to clear up the mess that another female has made, several years back. The leader, a certain
Ms. Zed aims to start off by promising never to wear blue and to stay off the gin and only drink red wine.
This means that the on-going election for a new Tory leader at
Naked Blog is now over. The other candidates were :
Nigel. Nigel comes from
t'Up North and has far too many children to cope with as it is. Although he could do with the job, I'm sure he'll be much happier elsewhere. Good luck Nigel.
Quickos. Quickos is far too happy and adventurous to be a leader of anything. Any bit of excitement leads him to falling over which would be terribly embarrassing for the Tory Party. Almost as embarrassing as having had Ian Duncan Smith as a Leader.
Mike. Mike spends too much of his time gallivanting around Paris and the nightclubs of Nottingham to be of any use to anyone. He'd manage to run up horrendous expense accounts simply by buying shirts and the odd house here and there. Besides, his audience over at Troubled Diva is so large that he doesn't need more publicity.
Ms. Zed promises to replace weekends by weekdays and weekdays by weekends. Sex-on-tap is assured, coils, tampons and anti-allergic condoms will all be free and it will be the end of psychotic showers, holey socks and poncey-poofy-tracky-trainers.
The new England will see the introduction of money growing on trees, a rare species of tree found growing uniquely next to the Vatican. Ms. Zed also ensures that she will find a replacement for the Pope thus enabling her to move into N° 10 next week.
Now be good and pop over to
Peter's and give the Lady yet another vote.
Wednesday, October 29, 2003
Why I hate the Cold.
There are many reasons why I hate the cold so much, but the main reason has to be because I have such piss-poor blood circulation that my fingers and toes feel as though they are about to snap off when the thermometre drops to about 10°C. All I want to do is lie in my warm bed with my bed socks and, heaven forbid, nightie on until it's summer again.
The kids are pretty pathetic too. They moan and groan about the temperature in the house being so low while they prance around barefoot and wearing only a t-shirt and jeans. Then they go all dramatic on me and wonder around the house with sarongs wrapped around their necks several times whilst wearing their dressing gowns. Still, they don't complain then.
The only person who is actually happy is the Twat, but then he's from t'Up North and basically the weather at the moment is almost tropical to him. Seeing as I'm apparently a Southern Jessie, it's only normal that I can't stand the cold. But there are other reasons, other than the temperature.
Last year I noticed that Spike the hedgehog was stuck trying to get through the fence and into the garden. So armed with rubber gloves and an old dishcloth, I bravely went to save Spike. He was very stuck. Very stuck indeed. Infact, he was so stuck that he'd frozen and was just hanging there, curved over the wire. That was yet another burial by the pond, where he joined the graves of Fluffy, our ex-bunny, and Jo, another ex-hedgehog. Our garden will soon be looking like that of a serial-killers'.
And the bills go up in the winter, more food is consumed and more medication is bought than any other time of the year to nurse those coughs, colds and sore throats. Clothing is more expensive, more is needed, and then if you like whizzing down mountains on a pair of planks that are only about 5cms in width, you'll find that holidays are more expensive too.
Bring back the summer, the nudity and the natural heating - I've already had it with winter.
Famous Last Words.
The kids left to spend the rest of their half-term chez Daddy yesterday. Their parting instructions (oh yes, we are always left instructions) were to have plenty of sweets available on Friday night. I had plenty last year and not one little blighter turned up.
So I don't think it unreasonable if we spend the evening out on Friday. You have to take precautions, you see. All that money spent on sweets to hose on all those gremlins could be spent having a drink or two in a bar. They never sing for me or do any daft antic that I ask of them, so I feel that it's perfectly fair that the Twat takes me out for the night.
Beats being stared at expectantly by a bunch of badly disguised kids.
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
They say the weirdest of things.
Sometimes I have to take the kids into work with me, when, for example, they are off school. This doesn't occur so much now, but the wall behind me in my office is covered with 'beautiful' pictures that they have drawn for me using highlighters, biros and other various office writing utensils.
C once put up a list about me - on 25 July, 2001, to be precise, and it wasn't until someone pointed out her last description of me this year, that has begun to make me wonder .....
Merveilleuse
Adorable
Magnifique
Aimable
Normale
Normale ?
Monday, October 27, 2003
Well, well, well ...
And an update from my visit to the postoffice involves a ginormous 'thank you' to Ian (sorry - I can't do dots on capitals) who has sent me the 157th publication of Boy George's Autobiography - "Take It Like a Man". Only 250 copies were made which either means that it's utter shite, the publishing company went bust or Boy George got bored.
I'm extremely touched - thank you.
True Lies.
When you are expecting something to be delivered at your house during the school holidays that has been sent via registered mail, do not, on any account tell your children. What will happen is that the postman will ring the doorbell and ask if their mummy or daddy is there. They will say that no, they aren't, we're home, alone.
Rather than contact the Social Securities, the postman will scribble something on a piece of paper, give it to the innocent twit who opened the door who will then give it to you so that you can go down to the post office and collect the item yourself.
What you should tell your children is that the postman will probably be popping round today and will want you to sign a piece of paper before giving you a letter. It might not be true, but it will save you from having to leg it to the post office in the freezing cold.
Sunday, October 26, 2003
Everybody's rabitting about it.
That's right. We gained an hour today. I wasn't actually aware of the fact, which, in all honesty, applies to just about everything, but I did have an inkling. And holy fuck - I woke up at 10.15 am (I'm trying to be an early-bird, but it's not working) and the Twat sauntered through with his cup of coffee mumbling something about it's only 9.15 - shall I wake you up in an hour ?
Well, hell no! I wanted to be awake and up now. Show those darn kids of mine that I am capable of getting out of bed before 2 pm - and then it dawned on me.
"You only found out via Bruce, didn't you, Q ?"
"Well, yes, but now you can sleep another hour after your migraine of yesterday."
"That's sweet of you, but really, it's time to get up."
"No, no, you don't have to - go on, have a good rest."
"Try rephrasing that as 'have a good rest - I want to muck around on Bruce for another hour or two'."
"No - I didn't mean that at all ..."
"Then you won't mind if I get up then."
He disappeared with his tail between his legs.
Sodding thing is that it's almost 6 pm, I'm out of bed - but it's getting dark. I don't like short days - who does ? We only have one life to live and for several months a year those days are shortened incredibly.
It reminds me of one of many holidays I had in the South of France - one in particular. We were staying in a gite in 'Les Cevennes', a beautiful part of France, and quite high up, too. Every evening was a beautiful, warm one, with the sky spangling with stars like diamonds. The sky was so incredibly beautiful that it made up for the early evenings. I used to try and guess which star was which, but I got as far as Madonna and Micheal Jackson. That's pretty piss poor.
I remember a friend coming to stay with us once and that made the holiday so much more fun for me. We did daft things like name all the animals we saw - Steve, the half-dead dog, Camilla, the lizard, Olga, the toad, and Henry - my prizewinning snail in a snail race.
I guess that I did have good times when I was married if it wasn't for those big-mouthed daughters of mine.
"Papa, Sylvie and mama did something vewwy bad today."
"Oh yes, what was that ?"
"We cannot tell you papa, it's a secwet."
"Then I'm sure it wasn't that bad."
"Oh, papa! It was weally bad. You said that we couldn't take da pweaches fwom da twees ...."
Thanks girls. You landed me right in it.
Friday, October 24, 2003
Bloody British Airways.Quickos' trip to New Delhi has started badly. As he sat, smuggled in our friend's rucksack, probably feeling rather uncomfortable seeing as he has feelings, according to the Twat, he arrived at London only to be denied access onto the plane to Delhi. Apparently some law was changed
five days ago, and you are now required to have a
transit visa to change flights in England.
As our friend is Indian, BA would not let him on the plane at Heathrow, despite the fact that he lives and works in Belgium, thus owning a 'valid common format residence permit issued by an EEA State pursuant to Council Regulation (EC) No. 1030/2002' (FCO website).
Anyway ....
Quickos managed to get on a flight to Delhi via Vienna (with his baby-sitter) which means that had he known, he could have visited
Haldur, but it's just as well that he didn't as this is the sort of excitement that makes him so excited that he falls over.
Control.Alt.Delete
There is nothing worse than having that damn song 'How much is that Doggie in the Window' stuck in your head - or so I thought. Today, it's 'Frostie, the Snowman' - it's that cold. Leaving for work when it's just beginning to get light and all the neighbours are scraping ice off their car windows isn't my cuppa.
But the sun is now in sight - somewhere, which will mean a beautiful, sunny day with clear blue skies while my colleague and I are being slowly killed by the fumes of the gas heaters inside this crappy office hugging cups of steaming coffee.
Thank God It's Friday.
Thursday, October 23, 2003
Sweet-nose.
I definitely do not have a sweet tooth. There are some sweet things that I like, but I prefer the cheeseboard to a sickly, sweet dessert, a packet of crisps to a Mars bar and so on. But it doesn't simply appear to be my 'tooth' - it's also my nose.
The kids have been toasting waffles and the sweet smell of toasted waffles is making me feel very sick. The Twat used to do the same thing, but after about 2 months, learnt how to shut the kitchen door when toasting his waffles. The smell is everywhere and I can only escape it by going outside which I find a rather drastic and cold solution.
I'll just kill the kids, I think.
It's cold.
I simply cannot get over how quickly the temperatures have dropped. 2 months ago and we were all complaining about the heat and the humidity, now we're all complaining about the cold. Today is particularly bad, with a strong, cold wind blowing. At least we haven't had any heavy frosts this week.
The trouble is, we don't have heating in the office as the arse of a landlady got some cowboys in to fix the roof - and they threw all the debris down the wrong chimney. They threw it down the chimney which contains the heating, blocking it entirely. So the silly cow has distributed these gas heaters to our offices and her other tenants, which dry up the air, stink and if you haven't died of carbon monoxide poisoning at the end of the day, you'll be on your way to your death-bed with a migraine from hell.
So the other employees and I have decided to hijack next Monday's Staff Meeting and insist on moving to other premises, where the landlord/lady is not psychotic, where there is heating, non-faulty wiring, toilets that flush and is accessible for the disabled.
For the time being I'm freezing my the Twat's arse off.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
Quickos and the Twat.
Quickos has gone on holiday. He left on Saturday evening to stay with a friend and will be flying to New Delhi on Friday, ready to celebrate Diwali. The effect that this has had on the Twat is quite worrying.
The Twat wanted to take a photo of Quickos on Sunday evening for something and then suddenly realised that he wasn't here. His reaction was absurd - I thought he was about to burst into tears.
"I can't."
"You can't what ?"
"Take a photo of Quickos - he's not here (blubber blubber) and I miss him (blubber blubber)."
"He'll be back soon. Did you pack his sleeping bag for him ?"
"(blubber blubber) No. He won't need it in India. I miss Quickos."
"For fuck's sake, pull yourself together. How old are you ?"
The Twat was pacing around the room trying to think of what to do. I even told him to call Quickos to see how he was, but he couldn't bear the thought. And yes, I am talking about a hand-puppet and my boyfriend who is a complete and utter twat.
As a friend wisely advised on Monday, "never ask the Twat to choose between you and Quickos."
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Sproglet's attention-span.
It's not good, it really isn't. I've tried, Sproglet's father has tried, - we've all tried, but it's no good. Things only exist if Sproglet can see them. Now that sounds fair enough, but it's not quite like that.
For example. Sproglet was given an expensive bicycle for his birthday and happened to leave it in front of the house one evening. So Q put it in the cellar. Did Sproglet wonder where his beloved bike was ? No. He couldn't see it so it didn't exist. The exact same thing happened to his scooter - and did he miss it ? No. The boy went for 2 weeks without his bike and didn't even notice it's absence. Finally, when he was at his dad's house he was sent back here to pick it up.
At the moment, his scooter is in the boot of the car. Sproglet still, after 3 weeks without it, hasn't mentioned it's absence.
Yesterday the boy managed to go to school without his satchel, simply because he didn't see it. If I hadn't been home then I reckon he'd have ended up in a spot of bother. And life's like that with Sproglet. Every afternoon he comes home and everyday I have to repeat to him the same thing (basically, "lunch-box on the table and let me have your Journal de Classe"). I considered making tape recordings of these things and playing them at the appropriate times, but there would be so many of them.
"Get ready for your bath, pants and socks in the basket".
"Clean your teeth".
"Get up now. Get up now. Get up now. Get dressed. Get dressed. Get dressed. Have breakfast. Have breakfast. Clean your teeth. Clean your teeth".
It has to be a boy-thing. The girls were never like this. And no matter how much I try to drill things into him - it all goes straight out the other ear. The Ditz said he should go to Drama School. In all honesty, I don't think he needs it. But that's another story.
Thank God for Hallowe'en.
Belgium wants to be American, which isn't such a great thing, really, but we don't have much choice. Instead of having the shops with Christmas decorations everywhere, everything is decidely orange. There are pumpkins and witches hanging all over the place. It's Hallowe'en soon, folks, that's what it's all about.
And then on December 6, it's St Niklaas, or St Nicholas, so that pushes Christmas a little further away into the distance. Not quite as far as shops go, but it takes your mind off it all. But woah, kiddies, when it comes to December 7 it's all about Christmas. Yuck, yuck, yuckity-yuck. Thankfully, the kids aren't with us this year, so no presents. I might buy the Twat something and the Twat won't buy me anything. That's the way it goes.
So I don't think that we're subjected to Christmas carols and snowmen yet - but then, I rarely go into town to find out. I'll let you know if we are as that will probably be one, huge rant. And if they decorate the Grand Place as they have done over the past 2 years, it's highly likely that I'll have a brush with the Law. Or a heart attack. Decisions, decisions.
But considering I splashed out on an MP3 player for Monsieur's 41th birthday, I doubt I can afford a present this year anyway. Oh, he was delighted. It even meant having to use Bruce to download music onto his little do-da. He was happy as Larry. And so was I. Give a man a gadget and you simply can't go wrong.
Maybe I'll buy him a hoover for Christmas then.
Monday, October 20, 2003
Silly Cow.
The doorbell just rang and I opened the door to 2 women in their 50s, blandly dressed and holding 'bags', so I thought oh fuck. Seeing as I am still in my dressing gown, one of the women sadly expressed how 'madame' must be ill - and then continued to try talking to me about the Bible. I raised my eyebrows and slammed the door.
Don't people understand that the last thing you want to hear when you're feeling shite is the drivel from the Bible ? Except, of course, if you believe and find solace from it.
How to spice up your Friday.
Oh dear me. Oh fucking hell. Last Friday was an absolute disaster. Everything was going so well at the office until poof! and the lights went out, the computer died and I was a little confused, to say the least. 30 seconds later, they came back on only to go out again - for quite some time.
I checked to see what was happening on the floor above only to see that they had electricity - but the phones weren't working. And then all of a sudden they were in darkness. Fanbloodytastic. The Twat was not amused as he is trying to work on a new design for our website and that's quite difficult if you haven't got electricity. I explained that the arsey landlady was in the cellar with a couple of workmen, and that's what probably caused the powercut.
Which was a mistake. A HUGE one. The Twat leant over the bannisters and yelled down 2 floors at her telling her that she can't simply cut off our electricity etc etc. Fair enough. But when we finally had the electricity back, no one could access their computers as the server had crashed due to the power failure. Anyway ....
The landlady came in and the Twat just opened his mouth and told her exactly what he thought, and let me put it this way ... a diplomat he is not. The use of the word 'fuck' was fairly frequent, and what really cracked me up was when he said something along the lines of "you can do what you like love, but we're going to have to sort out this mess". His accent started getting thicker and thicker and there was no stopping him.
When he finally stopped we went out for lunch and when we passed the workmen I asked what they'd done.
"I changed a lightbulb" was the reply.
eh ?
Sunday, October 19, 2003
Karen 'won'.
But I guess she won't want her prize .... does anybody else ?
Saturday, October 18, 2003
Game's Up.
I won't be doing any more 'popularity contests', as some readers like to refer to my very much tongue-in-cheek 'Blogger of the Week' game. A very big thank you to Quarsan who found some amusing pictures for me, and to all those who participated.
I hope you enjoy your prizes, even if it's not quite as much as The Guardian hands out.
Friday, October 17, 2003
Bloody Taxi Drivers.
We live about 20 minutes away from the airport. This can be a nuisance in the summer when they change the runways and use the ones that fly right over our houses, but other than that, it's quite useful.
When the Ditz arrived yesterday, the taxi driver got so incredibly lost that she ended up having to pay ?36 euros to get to my place. Apparently the taxi driver was looking in his Brussels guide map all the time and despite the Ditz asking him to simply call me, he replied by saying he'd found the street. Well he had. But not when he told her. So the Ditz has already seen quite a bit of Brussels, too much of taxi drivers and is flaked out at home, fast asleep.
That's the tourism taken care of then for the weekend, which leaves the Ditz (and her boyfriend who arrives tonight) in my wonderful company. Or the Twat and I could simply go out and celebrate his birthday in style while they babysit. Tempting.
Busy Bees.
I couldn't get to the keyboard yesterday as I was stuck in the European Parliament and then the Ditz arrived, bearing a bottle of Australian wine and violet crumbles.
Anyway, I'll post a bit more from work, but in the meantime, HAPPY BIRTHDAY QUARSAN who now reaches the official, old codger status.
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Food.
I love food. Especially Lebanese food. And Japanese food. Now come to think of it, I luurve all food - except, maybe, British food. But don't get me wrong. Marmite - Cheddar cheese, Lancashire cheese, Stilton, fish and chips, Penguins - I can't knock off English food because of the stuff I was fed at boarding school.
Let's face it, I adored that pink blancmangey stuff, - not to mention apple crumble, bread and butter pudding and real rice pudding. But somehow, none of that comes close to the crême brûlées of this world, nor the sushi or fresh pasta, all made in their countries of origin. I'm biased and spoilt for choice, living here, but one thing that I really do miss, apart from fish and chips, Yorkshire pudding and bacon butties, is real, bread and butter pudding.
I love it. The Twat loves it. The kids don't.
So I settle for the tinned stuff. Tinned rice pudding. They like that - because it's made in Belgium.
Kids. Strange creatures, aren't they.
This Week's Best Cucumber Blogger.An exciting challenge is brought to you this week when you will have to choose between the lovely
Karen over at Uborka, or the witty
Pete over at - err, Uborka. That's right, ladies and gentlemen, they are an item who are so nauseatingly in love that they even share the same blog.
Why Karen ?Karen is a sweet and generous young woman who used to try to get the blogosphere drunk most afternoons. That is, until she met Pete and rather than the need for a stiff drink everyday, people started reaching for their buckets. Karen has successfully managed to change her blog 3 times since I have known of 'Rise', break her wrist and finish reading 'Ulysees'. She weighs in at 5,423 books, one green plastercast, 3 blogs and a cucumber.
Why Pete ?Pete, formerly the owner of a gooey blog and a rather bizarre Agony Aunt, managed to catch Karen's eye one day in a comment's box. Since then, life has been a roller-coaster, with a visit to Budapest armed with the knowledge of 5 Hungarian words - of which I'd rather not know what they are. His straightforward writing and quick wit has him weighing in at 2 blogs, a girlfriend, a donkey - and a cucumber.
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Memory lane ...Pewari just reminded me of a time when I was at the Alien's house with my kids. Sproglet could only have been a month old at the most. I was changing his nappy on the living room floor and as I got up to throw the evidence away, I remember saying to him
"Stay there, I won't be a sec."Alien mother turned around and said
"Where do you think he's going to go ? He can barely turn over, let alone leave the house." D'Oh.
Nightmares.I don't really suffer from nightmares as such, but like any other normal person I do tend to dream about someone who has hurt me badly in the past. I've blogged about this person earlier on in the year - but I don't particularly care to check back as to when as I've dreamt about him the past two nights.
I was OK yesterday, but today, after reading what happened to K,
Mike's partner, I became very quiet, which is unusual for me. I think Q knew what I was thinking, but I haven't told him about the dreams. I don't want to. I can talk about what happened to me as I feel it helps in some bizarre way. My theory is that it happened, the clocks aren't going to go back and there is no way I can change the past.
It's one of those days when I'm glad that Q has his French class tonight. I often find that I can get through a difficult moment on my own much more easily than if someone was here. Just like when the incident happened - Q was in the UK and I was to join him 4 days later. I couldn't bring myself to tell him until 2 days after it happened and even then, there are some things that a litre of Dettol just can't wash away.
I do hope K is feeling better now, especially as he can see from Mike's comments that he is not alone.
Freds.
This has bugged me for ages. Why is it that almost everytime I do a washing-machine load, upon emptying it I nearly always find one sock missing ? This lonely sock then becomes a 'Fred', as we tend to call them chez nous, and my basket of Freds is getting pretty full.
Every now and then I get the kids to go through all the Freds to see if, on the off-chance, Fred's partner has decided to join him at a later date. But it's a big mystery to me as to where all these socks go to. It's like feeding another person although as far as I'm aware, my washing machine doesn't have teeth, nor are the pipes blocked.
Apparently a survey was once done in Germany (where else) about socks that go missing in a wash. They worked out that on average, one sock disappears per 3 washing-loads, if you see what I mean. I wonder what would happen if I started washing the Freds - would they suddenly be joined by their long, lost partner ?
It's worth a go.
Monday, October 13, 2003
The Bitch is Back.
T just dropped round to get a book that she'd left behind on Friday. It's strange, but my kids are so different when they aren't spending the week here. It's as if they are visiting and so they become all polite and sweet and lovely, rather than stroppy, demanding and bossy. Time away from me is definitely a good thing for them - I hope it works the same way with their father.
Anyway, I decided that it was time for T to see a little bit of the truth and so showed her the photos of C's bedroom that I've posted below. I also showed her the larger versions of these photos (in my photo gallery). Bless the dear lamb, she was so apologetic and said how she'd clear it all up on Friday and never leave the room in such a mess again.
Famous last words, methinks.
I blame Mike.Last week, whilst Lyle was happily giving us some excellent reading material over at
Troubled Diva, he finds himself up for
auction election chez moi. This week,
Quarsan is working his guts out for young Michael - and he also faces working at my office for the entire week, re-designing our website.
There is something about that Mr Diva that makes people end up having to give their best in two or more domaines. I'm sure he's rigged it.
Anyway, it's good to see Q earning some money, but I now realise why he was better working on the top of a mountain : he stresses. The Twat simply isn't used to working in an office and runs around like a constipated blue-arsed fly muttering "server .... fucking no FTP .... is all in bloody Italian .... crap Wanadoo .... email's down .... no dreamweaver .... someone's removed photoshop ....".
And I've also realised that I don't like working with him. He changed my browser and email to Mozilla. It took me 5 minutes to forward/send an email and for some reason Mozilla wouldn't work properly. So the Twat's reinstalled Netcrap and I'm a very unhappy bunny.
Time to see Auntie Peter, I think.
Sunday, October 12, 2003
STOP VOTINGYes, none other than Peter, from
Naked Blog has beaten, to a pulp, the adorable, sweet, filthy-mouthed
Lyle.
It was a close match, which had Peter leading - and winning - by only 4, pitiful votes. This is the result of extremely incompetent cheating and low PR. Whatever, congratulations to Peter (who won), and to Lyle (who only just lost).
Next week's contestants will be announced on Wednesday.
In the meantime, congratulations to Peter, who won by
46 votes, and commiserations to Lyle, who almost got there with
42 votes. Thank you both for having no choice in the matter.
And so ... I sold my Arse.
At precisely 1pm on Sunday, 12 October, 2003, I sold my arse to the Twat. In return, I received a cheque, written out to Scaryduck, which I'll post this week in the vain hope that I'll get a
Scaryduck mug in return.
An eye for an eye, an arse for a mug.
Saturday, October 11, 2003
Life's Little Luxuries.I don't have many luxuries - maybe 3, or 4, if you include beating the Twat over the head with a blunt object everyday so that he gets his arse into gear and cooks for me. One of them is having a cleaning lady clean my house every fortnight, once the kids have gone to their dad's and Pretty Horrible Tit's house, after a week here, making a mess.
Now I know that I'm not the most organised and tidiest of people and so set a pretty awful example, but my bedroom does not look half as bad as C's. T has her own bedroom but tends to sleep in C's room. Between the pair of them, they have managed to make C's bedroom look as though hurricane Isabel made a fleeting visit.
And because of this mess, my cleaning lady hasn't been able to clean C's room for 6 (yes, s-i-x) months. The dust is getting rather thick, especially on the windowsill, but is she bothered ? Not a chance. C's a teenager for god's sake. She isn't supposed to care.
My room used to be quite a lot tidier than it is, but the Twat has really begun to feel at home by leaving fleeces, t-shirts, pants and socks on the sofa-bed opposite our actual bed - which he is still succeeding in pulling apart. The kitchen is an amalgamation of all my unfiled paper-work and the Twat's bills, copies of Private Eye, papers for the car and stuff that should be sent to his accountant.
But I really like my cleaning lady's fortnightly visits. The house may still look a dump, but at least it's a clean dump. Eva, you're greatly appreciated.
Oh fuck, shit and bugger.
My IP went down on me for over 12 hours.
I'm exhausted.
Thursday, October 09, 2003
Would anyone be interested ?
The Twat mentioned a while back about 'My boyfriend is a Twat' mugs, but I didn't think that anybody would really be interested. That is, apart from me. But Tilly Mint has expressed a sincere interest - no, a need, to have one.
So I was just wondering if I should follow through with the idea.
Wednesday, October 08, 2003
How low can you go ?The Twat has an account in England. Well, so do I, but it has about a couple of quid in it, tops. But the Twat has money in his account. And he has cheques. So I asked him, him being my boyfriend and that, if he'd write out a cheque to
Scaryduck so that I can buy a mug.
"Orrigh'."
"Really ? Oh thanks so much - I'll pay you back in euros."
"S'orrigh'. Jus' lemme play with y'arse."
"You what ?"
"Y'erd."So I'm cheap. I sold my arse for a Scaryduck mug.
Who is going to be this Week's Blogger ?Well, it is a choice between that poor, hard-done-by blogger,
Lyle or the even grumpier, everybody-hates-me
Peter.
Why Lyle ?Lyle is an expert when it comes to insults. His very post about how inefficient and crap BT are brought tears to my eyes. The fact that Lyle is a geek must have made the entire experience an exhausting and frustrating one. He has also been made to change the title of his blog. By who ? Those dummie people. The embarrassment of that episode in his life has Lyle weighing in at 5003 swear words, 78 blogs and 5 court cases.
Why Peter ?Peter isn't, as he likes to come across, grumpy. He's an absolute sweetheart who makes the ladies' hearts palpitate unnervingly as he reads out the numbers in his bingo hall. He is also a prize Queen on the rampage, which, despite his sexy voice, is not always a good idea considering his worries about his health. This week's Darling weighs in with a Voice to a Kill, a lack of a kilt and 30-49-23-12-15.
Tuesday, October 07, 2003
Oh Shit.The Twat's going to the
auctioning off of the cows tomorrow. He hopes to buy one of the bright orange ones because that'll match
Quickos' t-shirt - and
"it'll look great in front of the house."No.It.Won't.
Sproglet the Twat is weird.
Actually, they both are. Sproglet kindly gave up his mattress to one of our guests over the weekend and I gave Sproglet a camping mattress for the 3 nights. But he didn't want it as he actually likes sleeping on wooden planks. I told him last night that he could have his mattress back, but once again he didn't want it, preferring to sleep on the lattice work of his bed.
Well, I suppose it won't kill him, but the Twat managed to find out what Sproglet was dying of yesterday during one of their man-to-man talks. He'd cricked his neck. No wonder Sproglet didn't have a temparature or complain of ear-ache. No wonder he felt perfectly fit and healthy to go chasing after Julie. The Twat just shrugged and said that he'd be home by 7.
All of this leaves me with quite a complex problem really. Sproglet is smothered in cotton wool chez Papa, whereas I believe in street cred., fending for yourself and independence, so when my darling offspring have to spend time with me, we work around each other's schedules. It works for us. But chez Papa things are very different. They have to go on long bike rides (14 year-old girls surely have other things on their minds ?) and walks. And I know that the girls hate all of this.
I think that the only answer is that they get themselves a boyfriend each. The Ex may be more understanding then. Having said that, the Twat has a test that any boy who wants to go out with my daughters has to pass. Holy fuck, the girls are going to have difficult times ahead, what with an over-protective father, tart of a 'quasi'-mum, totally batty mother and an eccentric 'quasi'-dad.
While I feel it's my duty to teach the girls to cook, it is definitely the Twat's duty to teach them how to drive. I can foresee great benefits from doing this. I really can.
Penguins at last!
You know real friends when they come to stay for the weekend armed with a huge pot of Marmite. And not only Marmite. Penguins. And not simply one Penguin, and not simply one packet. But two "double packets". I've hidden them from the Twat and more importantly, the kids. My life is, at present, complete. In fact, I think I'll get one now. Don't go away.
This is strange. I'm sure that the Penguin wrappers used to be red and actually wrapped around the biscuit. I'm sure the wrapper was red as I distinctly remember the colour of the foil as you unwrapped your Penguin all those years ago. And they used to be larger too, unless this is the result of rationing after the war in Iraq.
I think I'll have to get another one now.
Monday, October 06, 2003
The Twat's Quote of the Day.
Me : "For goodness sake, T, it'll be alright. I'm your mother."
The Twat : "Well that's not a very nice thing to tell her."
People Say the Most Stupid Things.
I'm having a trip down memory lane so this will be a short one.
When my daughters were babies, or at least, still in the pram-stage, I had a double pram. Considering they are twins this makes sense. But you have absolutely no idea how many people would come up to me and say "Aren't they adorable ? Are they twins ?" Well, duh, they were the same size, usually dressed similarly as people tend to give identical clothing as a present to people who have just become parents of twins - and the girls actually looked alike.
So when you put identical clothing, same size, similar looks, double pram into a blender, you end up with twins. So one day, when asked for the 6th time, on the same road, if my babies were twins, I replied, somewhat aghast that "no - it's one baby with two heads".
I've never seen anyone move so fast.
Hypochondriacs.
My Ex is a terrible hypochondriac, and appears to have installed this condition into Sproglet. I finally went back to work today, still not 100%, but okish. I was greeted by mountains and mountains of stuff to do, people to sort out, the phone that didn't know how to stop ringing - in other words, a bloody awful morning.
Then the Ex phones. "Sproglet is dying of an ear infection. Can you get him from school ?" Well, no actually, I can't. I can't see over my bloody monitor for scraps of paper, notes, bills, personnel issues and no. I can't. Who diagnosed this ear infection and when is he due to die ? "PHT. Soon. I'll get him and drop him off at my mother's but yada yada yada yada...."
I picked Sproglet up who told me he had a sore throat. After I'd put him to bed I crashed out myself only to wake up to find that he's gone to play with his girlfriend (a new one - Weeeeveeeene is out of the picture already). So that's Sproglet. Really ill with an ear infection and about to die.
Kiss my arse, Charlie.
And this week's Winner is ....
the gorgeous
Vodkabird with the total of
64 points, leaving behind
the Diamond Geezer with a rather shameful total of
23 points.
Frankly speaking, I thinking Vicky's arse had a lot to do with the voting ...
Sunday, October 05, 2003
Kids are out all day ...
so we're going cow-hunting and may have moules/frites for lunch. Quickos is ever so excited.
And keep on voting - these are pathetic results.
Friday, October 03, 2003
Bits and Bobs.A big
thank you to
Jonathan at Enetation for his excellent service over at Enetation. (If anybody was around about an hour ago, my comments had gone down again. So I squeaked and Jonathan helped me out).
Vicky is leading by 42 to 13 against
Diamond Geezer in this week's best blogger malarky. Some people just don't know how to cheat these days, unlike
Scaryduck. Vote, I'm telling you, vote - before the poll closes on Sunday evening.
I'm sitting here waiting for my daughters to come home. The top room is a pit and we have guests coming this weekend. In fact, everything's gone pear-shaped. The Twat's at work so will have to come home, get the car, pick up our friends at the same time he has to pick up Sproglet. A daughter will have to go and get Sproglet whilst the other one clears up her room.
Hopefully, posts will be a tad more interesting next week. That is, if the entire office hasn't fallen apart due to my inconvenient absence.
Oh vote, ye people, vote.
Back to School.
I've met few people who are in a job that meets their qualifications. So many people leave university these days with a PhD in, for example, economics, and end up in a job as a copywriter, or whatever. Not that there's anything wrong with being a copywriter - it may be deadly boring, but there you go - but all those years at university, studying the subject of your choice which you can never put to use.
My ex studied how to be a bastard history. He was a teacher for 2 years (general subjects), then ended up as a copywriter, then became a hotel manager and is now doing something extremely boring - but is well-paid. I've noticed that those who study politics/international politics are very likely to get a job in that domaine. For a while. Then they end up as some sort of glorified secretary to an MEP. At least, those are my observations in Belgium.
Mechanics, hair-dresser's, beauticians, doctors etc, obviously end up working in a job that they were trained for. I didn't go to university and so am lucky to have a job at all. The Twat 'became' a conservationist by learning off others - although it's not much use over here.
I think it's a shame to see people throwing away their BAs etc, just so that they end up earning money, regardless of the job. Maybe universities should have set openings for specific courses - or maybe the job market should pick itself up off the floor.
Thursday, October 02, 2003
And talking of Squipper....You should pop right over there and check out the rules for the
Boobie-thon.The Second Annual Blogger Boobie-Thon blog features photographs of bare-breasted women (requires pay-per-boobie donation of $50 to view) or covered boobies photographs. The Boobie-Thon lasts throughout the month of October.
BUT.Mr. Helpful has come up with something else as he wonders
"In today's "everything is equal" society, why should men have all the fun? Dont women deserve eye candy too? Someone needs to stand up for the rights of women everywhere and, in this case, that someone shall be me.
Everyone can participate, even men, although I must say if you are male and not a homosexual then a click on the link below will generate an automatic email message to your parents, your boss, your significant other AND your parish priest notifying them that you clicked on a dick." Go on over and do your bit.
We'll play question day.This is
Squip's idea of boredom-relief.
Have your readers ask you a question via your blog ... then you have to
answer it on your blog. 'k? this way you don't have to think up stuff.My question:
if you could be anywhere else today, where would you be and what would
you be doing?
Christ, I'm bored.It's driven me to reading
this site. I haven't laughed so much in ages - here are a couple of examples ....
thumb : do you know of any major organizations that are similar the CDC?
lucent : who?
thumb : center for disease control
lucent : i said WHO
thumb : what? i'm asking you
lucent : World Health Organizationdemoneater : wtf
demoneater : ESPN is showing 2003 national jump rope championship
demoneater : who the hell watches jump rope competiti--- ooh bouncy
Wednesday, October 01, 2003
Back from the Hairdresser's.Mike's about to strut his stuff on the stage.
I hope you like my
exclusive photo, sent to me by a leading paparazzi, of our Mike 'getting into character'.
It's only a matter of time before we see our Mike waving a hypodermic around with great abandon in Holby City.
This week's Best Blogger.Vicky from Vodkabird, tucked away nicely in Scotland is going to find herself up against the mathmetically-challenged, London-based
Geezer from DiamondGeezer.
Why VodkaBird ?Her well-written blog covers many topics, proving that there is intelligence t'Up North. Vicky weighs in at 358 records, one University, 5 blogs and 40% proof.
Why DiamondGeezer ?A Londoner through and through, DG's blog is a lot about London. This is a man who has a penchant for numbers and well-known places as far as 15 minutes walk away from his house. DG weighs in at 4 canals, 11 quizzes, 29 blogs and his 37 times-table.
Bummer.
I had to go to the Doctor's today as I am still feeling grotty. And even if I'm not sick, I need a sick-note for work. I love my Doctor. He looks like a grey Pavarotti and is such a wonderfully kind man. One look at me and he said "I thinka that it'sa your colon." One prod, one squeak and his diagnosis was "See ? it'sa gastro(something). You weela nota go to worka. Teela Monday."
I left with a prescription for painkillers and something else, as well as the prized sick-note. At least I know I wasn't making it up - one gentle poke into my tummy made me realise that. So now everything's alright, apart from the Twat's farting. "I'm keeping myself healthy, darling" is all he says.
His farts could generate a gas chamber.
