Damn. The Twat sent me this. This sort of 20 question game is spooky.
Friday, February 28, 2003
Ah shit, my brain won't work. It's another lovely day, I managed to get two things done this morning (for home, not work) and now I'm at the office I should be checking missing invoices. How can I check missing invoices ? They aren't bloody well here, so I can't check them. Besides, I like looking at my weblog from the office as it looks totally different. So does everybody elses. It's amazing how much I like the colours on people's weblogs - something that is very new to me seeing as Bruce still has jaundice. Or rather, hasn't been fixed.
That's going to be such a palava as the hard disk will have to go too. So both monitor and hard disk, plus all those wires and cables (I already have a headache at the thought) will be bundled nicely into the car and taken to Bruce's doctor. Why he doesn't do house-calls is a serious issue that I shall be bringing up with him. The Twat's laptop needs fixing too as the monitor doesn't work at all. And it would be oh-so-nice if both our computers could have internet access. I believe this involves a net-card, or something, but don't place your bets.
I would, in theory, let the Twat link up our computers, but seeing as each time his best mate fiddles around on one of his own computers back in Liverpewl, he seems to lose any sort of computer access at all. So the Twat isn't allowed to do it, nor is Bruce's previous doctor, my best mate, seeing as he blew up his computer not long ago.
I'm now very confused as to who did what to who's computer, and where and when they did this.
That's going to be such a palava as the hard disk will have to go too. So both monitor and hard disk, plus all those wires and cables (I already have a headache at the thought) will be bundled nicely into the car and taken to Bruce's doctor. Why he doesn't do house-calls is a serious issue that I shall be bringing up with him. The Twat's laptop needs fixing too as the monitor doesn't work at all. And it would be oh-so-nice if both our computers could have internet access. I believe this involves a net-card, or something, but don't place your bets.
I would, in theory, let the Twat link up our computers, but seeing as each time his best mate fiddles around on one of his own computers back in Liverpewl, he seems to lose any sort of computer access at all. So the Twat isn't allowed to do it, nor is Bruce's previous doctor, my best mate, seeing as he blew up his computer not long ago.
I'm now very confused as to who did what to who's computer, and where and when they did this.
Wednesday, February 26, 2003
Oh Bugger. My bloody comments aren't working properly, my sitemetre went down and so did Blogger just when I realised that this month's posts weren't in the archives. This wouldn't be much of a problem to most, but it was to me as the Twat was snoring loudly on the bed. Yes. My IT assistant was asleep.
I'm used to bodyguards falling fast asleep, leaning against their rifles whilst snoring extremely loudly, around me. But that was in Africa. Not the centre of Europe. THE Capital of Europe. Brussels. Things like that Just Do Not Happen Here. Well, not around me.
I'm all too used to those Eurogits and their 3-hour lunches, staggering back to their offices - if at all - pissed out of their tiny minds. I once even had to escort one of the afore-mentioned gits to his seat at a Conference that I was organising, as he couldn't even walk in a straight line, let alone get to his seat. He was also supposed to make the finishing remarks at that Conference. 20 minutes before he decided to return.
But the Twat is no Eurogit. He's from t'up North, snores and farts a lot. I take it as part of the culture. But just then, when I really needed him, I heard him sleeping. Not to be out-challenged, I decided that I would try and work out where I'd gone wrong. And I did. Tally-ho and all that rubbish for me.
The comments can't be rectified until the servers are back up and as for the sitemetre ... I'd have to wait. And this applied to Blogger too, although I was lamenting about how things all go wrong when I most need them. Sod's law and all that. When the Twat finally woke up, he told me what to do about the archives - and that was another problem solved.
I'm still pondering on the question : is there hope for me yet ?
I'm used to bodyguards falling fast asleep, leaning against their rifles whilst snoring extremely loudly, around me. But that was in Africa. Not the centre of Europe. THE Capital of Europe. Brussels. Things like that Just Do Not Happen Here. Well, not around me.
I'm all too used to those Eurogits and their 3-hour lunches, staggering back to their offices - if at all - pissed out of their tiny minds. I once even had to escort one of the afore-mentioned gits to his seat at a Conference that I was organising, as he couldn't even walk in a straight line, let alone get to his seat. He was also supposed to make the finishing remarks at that Conference. 20 minutes before he decided to return.
But the Twat is no Eurogit. He's from t'up North, snores and farts a lot. I take it as part of the culture. But just then, when I really needed him, I heard him sleeping. Not to be out-challenged, I decided that I would try and work out where I'd gone wrong. And I did. Tally-ho and all that rubbish for me.
The comments can't be rectified until the servers are back up and as for the sitemetre ... I'd have to wait. And this applied to Blogger too, although I was lamenting about how things all go wrong when I most need them. Sod's law and all that. When the Twat finally woke up, he told me what to do about the archives - and that was another problem solved.
I'm still pondering on the question : is there hope for me yet ?
It doesn't take much to confuse me, but where on earth have all my comments disappeared to on the 2 posts below ?
Should anybody find them, they will be greatly rewarded. You never know what these comments get up to, you see, and I fear for other people's lives.
Be afraid. Very afraid.
Should anybody find them, they will be greatly rewarded. You never know what these comments get up to, you see, and I fear for other people's lives.
Be afraid. Very afraid.
Tuesday, February 25, 2003
I live with a Teletubby. I call him 'Po', whereas he has taken to calling me 'Dipsy'. Bloody charming if you ask me, as I'm not half as lardy as a Teletubby.
Anyway ....
I must have said something as the Twat went jogging today. I kid you not. He donned his poncy-poofy-trackey-trainers (well, he was already wearing them), put on one of his t-shirts that he had received as some sort of publicity for a restaurant somewhere (OK, he was wearing that too), put on a pair of trainers that he'd received from a friend (ewww) and, well, went off jogging.
5 minutes later he was back, out of breath - and worryingly, coughing. Well, yes, the Twat's lungs aren't what they used to be (nicotine-filled), but I expected better. Still, he made the effort - probably to the end of the road and back, which means all of 40 metres, maximum. He made a move towards having a bath - but, bless his cotton (holEy socks) he stayed here and helped me load some photos for you all to see as I am brain-dead when there is a computer involved.
I think that 'Po' realises that perhaps he has put on weight which is totally normal, considering that he has been out of (work) action for several months. I don't mind - really, as long as .......
the Twat doesn't start calling me 'Dipsy'.
Anyway ....
I must have said something as the Twat went jogging today. I kid you not. He donned his poncy-poofy-trackey-trainers (well, he was already wearing them), put on one of his t-shirts that he had received as some sort of publicity for a restaurant somewhere (OK, he was wearing that too), put on a pair of trainers that he'd received from a friend (ewww) and, well, went off jogging.
5 minutes later he was back, out of breath - and worryingly, coughing. Well, yes, the Twat's lungs aren't what they used to be (nicotine-filled), but I expected better. Still, he made the effort - probably to the end of the road and back, which means all of 40 metres, maximum. He made a move towards having a bath - but, bless his cotton (holEy socks) he stayed here and helped me load some photos for you all to see as I am brain-dead when there is a computer involved.
I think that 'Po' realises that perhaps he has put on weight which is totally normal, considering that he has been out of (work) action for several months. I don't mind - really, as long as .......
the Twat doesn't start calling me 'Dipsy'.
A little guessing game. I'd like you all to guess, exactly, what this is. Or do you want to see it larger?
Monday, February 24, 2003
I think I've lost the plot. On Saturday I bought a cake mix which I thrust into the Twat's greedy little paws, muttering "I didn't get a birthday cake. Now make me one." Oh how his beady little eyes lit up when he saw the picture of the cake on the front of the packet. Of course, cakes never look like the picture on the cake-mix packet, nor do they ever vaguely ressemble the photo of whatever cake you are making, in the cook-book. I wonder how much David Bailey charges to make those damn cakes look so huge, when in reality they come out of the oven about 2 cms thick.
2 cms thick ..... and then the Twat is supposed to slice it in half and put the filling in. Now this should be interesting as the Twat can't find the separate sachet containing the ingredients for the filling. I expect it's been incorporated into the rest of the cake. Nice. But I am assured that the cake mix has been thoroughly whisked. But what I'm really asking myself is this :
"Why on earth did I ask him to make a cake in the first place ?"
I should have known better than to let the Twat continue with his baking when he asked me for a cake tin. I got one out of the cupboard for him, and to make life even easier, I chose one of those cake tins whereby you can detatch the base once the cake is cooked. I showed the Twat how this worked and his reply was :
"Oh, so that's what that's for. I normally scratch the cakes out."
Did I back out ? Did I ? No. Flabbergasted, I decided that my best option was to go upstairs and hide. This wasn't enough though, as the Twat kept coming upstairs asking me what the difference between beating and blending was, how does one grease a cake tin, and last, but not least .... where the oven was.
I thought the worst was over - until I saw the result:
Check out the full horror here.
2 cms thick ..... and then the Twat is supposed to slice it in half and put the filling in. Now this should be interesting as the Twat can't find the separate sachet containing the ingredients for the filling. I expect it's been incorporated into the rest of the cake. Nice. But I am assured that the cake mix has been thoroughly whisked. But what I'm really asking myself is this :
"Why on earth did I ask him to make a cake in the first place ?"
I should have known better than to let the Twat continue with his baking when he asked me for a cake tin. I got one out of the cupboard for him, and to make life even easier, I chose one of those cake tins whereby you can detatch the base once the cake is cooked. I showed the Twat how this worked and his reply was :
"Oh, so that's what that's for. I normally scratch the cakes out."
Did I back out ? Did I ? No. Flabbergasted, I decided that my best option was to go upstairs and hide. This wasn't enough though, as the Twat kept coming upstairs asking me what the difference between beating and blending was, how does one grease a cake tin, and last, but not least .... where the oven was.
I thought the worst was over - until I saw the result:
Check out the full horror here.
Sunday, February 23, 2003
Well, what a boring day. Well, according to the Twat, that is. You see, he hasn't received one single text message from his mate in Liverpool re : politics. That's right. Not one. And so the Twat is mighty upset.
I, on the other hand, praise the Twat for all the hard work that he has put into my weblog (all about himself, note) today. Do check out everything that he has done, and any complaints can be sent to Quarsan at quarsan dot net.
And now, as for the jogging that the Twat was supposed to do ... well, he hasn't. No. None at all. Jogging to and fro the bedroom and Bruce's (computer) room does not count. Infact, from the Twat's side of the bed to Bruce's room must be all of 5 metres. It's hardly worth bothering getting the jogging outfit on, is it ?
So the Twat is still a lardarse. I mentioned taking a picture of his stomach for my photo gallery but that was met with a very, very sour look. Anybody would think he's ashamed. Which he is, but just will not admit it. So I have come to the conclusion that I was right. Men can get away with it but women can't.
Now I'm not saying that I'm as thin as a rake - far from it, but why, oh why, do men think that they are thin/muscular/toned/well-built - when, infact, they are as large as .... well, me ?
The Twat is looking forward to National Laxative Week.
I, on the other hand, praise the Twat for all the hard work that he has put into my weblog (all about himself, note) today. Do check out everything that he has done, and any complaints can be sent to Quarsan at quarsan dot net.
And now, as for the jogging that the Twat was supposed to do ... well, he hasn't. No. None at all. Jogging to and fro the bedroom and Bruce's (computer) room does not count. Infact, from the Twat's side of the bed to Bruce's room must be all of 5 metres. It's hardly worth bothering getting the jogging outfit on, is it ?
So the Twat is still a lardarse. I mentioned taking a picture of his stomach for my photo gallery but that was met with a very, very sour look. Anybody would think he's ashamed. Which he is, but just will not admit it. So I have come to the conclusion that I was right. Men can get away with it but women can't.
Now I'm not saying that I'm as thin as a rake - far from it, but why, oh why, do men think that they are thin/muscular/toned/well-built - when, infact, they are as large as .... well, me ?
The Twat is looking forward to National Laxative Week.
Saturday, February 22, 2003
Just what the doctor ordered. A day at our local sauna. There's a hamman, 3 different saunas, an indoor/outdoor pool - it's great. It's also full of big fat Flems. Actually, they are marvellous people - they strut their flab with pride.
Whilst I was in the pool, I noticed the Twat heading for the steambath and Oh.My.God. His torso is meeting his waist. I kid you not. There were distinct markings of flab. Of course this made me rush out of the pool and join him before he entered the steambath to let him into the, let's say .... big news.
"Listen mate, you're fat and you're going jogging tomorrow."
The Twat looked at me as if I'd said something wrong. I checked again. Nope, his muscle has turned to fat. The F-diet is NOT working, time for some jogging, and jogging he'll be tomorrow. He has no say in the matter.
All this brings back memories to the first time I went to the sauna. My eyes were averted to the ceiling lest I be seen checking out the tits on that woman, or, merde alors !, checking out that man's dangly bits. Times have changed. I'm used to those wonderful fat Flems and their weird piercings in all sorts of places. I often wonder what they make of me - but then think that it's better not to think that way. Well, you never know.
So the Twat has a bright pink face from spending too much time in the saunas, and chronic cramp from not moving enough. But such a wonderfully, relaxing day.
With such a wonderful Twat.
Whilst I was in the pool, I noticed the Twat heading for the steambath and Oh.My.God. His torso is meeting his waist. I kid you not. There were distinct markings of flab. Of course this made me rush out of the pool and join him before he entered the steambath to let him into the, let's say .... big news.
"Listen mate, you're fat and you're going jogging tomorrow."
The Twat looked at me as if I'd said something wrong. I checked again. Nope, his muscle has turned to fat. The F-diet is NOT working, time for some jogging, and jogging he'll be tomorrow. He has no say in the matter.
All this brings back memories to the first time I went to the sauna. My eyes were averted to the ceiling lest I be seen checking out the tits on that woman, or, merde alors !, checking out that man's dangly bits. Times have changed. I'm used to those wonderful fat Flems and their weird piercings in all sorts of places. I often wonder what they make of me - but then think that it's better not to think that way. Well, you never know.
So the Twat has a bright pink face from spending too much time in the saunas, and chronic cramp from not moving enough. But such a wonderfully, relaxing day.
With such a wonderful Twat.
The Twat's solution.
I was pissed off as because Sproglet has missed 2 swimming lessons in a row at school, I got a message from his teacher saying that 'Sproglet would need a medical certificate'. WTF ? The little tyke isn't even earning and he needs a medical certificate ?? The Twat came up with the solution.
"Just tell his teacher that he's soluble."
Absolutely no comment.
I was pissed off as because Sproglet has missed 2 swimming lessons in a row at school, I got a message from his teacher saying that 'Sproglet would need a medical certificate'. WTF ? The little tyke isn't even earning and he needs a medical certificate ?? The Twat came up with the solution.
"Just tell his teacher that he's soluble."
Absolutely no comment.
Thursday, February 20, 2003
So much to say ... yet feeling shite. Once I get out of this 'mood', I'll be able to give the update on the Twat's socks, the sprog's abuse and the general mayhem that goes on here.
At the moment though, I'm down-in-the-dumps and was force-fed by Quarsan tonight as my appetite has gone. Yes, just gone. Left me for good. Probably in the Twat's favour.
There are a lot of reasons for this mood - but someone, somewhere, please tell me that I did a good deed today by giving away a beautiful bouquet of flowers (received from the office - 2 days late, after 11 years of service there) to another woman living in the same building as my office - before I chopped the heads off each flower.
Oh yes. Zoe was fucking angry. And depressed.
At the moment though, I'm down-in-the-dumps and was force-fed by Quarsan tonight as my appetite has gone. Yes, just gone. Left me for good. Probably in the Twat's favour.
There are a lot of reasons for this mood - but someone, somewhere, please tell me that I did a good deed today by giving away a beautiful bouquet of flowers (received from the office - 2 days late, after 11 years of service there) to another woman living in the same building as my office - before I chopped the heads off each flower.
Oh yes. Zoe was fucking angry. And depressed.
Wednesday, February 19, 2003
Profanity, slamming doors and screaming. Ah, the joys of being a mother to teen-age girls. The bad language that I'm picking up this very minute, the decibels that keep rising, the door that keeps slamming ... all over who gets to be in the bath first. The Twat and I find it all rather amusing and he keeps asking me things like :
"Connasse ? C'est quoi ? Pute ?"
I'll keep him guessing. But one thing is for sure : they didn't pick up that language from me. The shouting, maybe, but not the insults that are being hurled through the bathroom door at each other. Not from me, no way.
They picked up the English version instead.
"Connasse ? C'est quoi ? Pute ?"
I'll keep him guessing. But one thing is for sure : they didn't pick up that language from me. The shouting, maybe, but not the insults that are being hurled through the bathroom door at each other. Not from me, no way.
They picked up the English version instead.
Tuesday, February 18, 2003
Ye Gods, where have the past 40 years gone to ? That's right, I've reached the age of 40, and it feels wonderful. The thing that's worrying me is, well, what happened ? I mean, I was born in 1963, but I can remember very little of what has happened over the years since then. So I'm going to try and see if I can remember 40 things that have happened since the earth was blessed with the birth of Zoe.
1. I killed Sam, my turtle, when I was about 5, and living in Japan.
2. Another brother was born. I already had one younger brother and he and I insisted that this boy should be called 'Jo'. And he is to this day.
3. My family (and I, obviously) returned to England and I lived in Croydon for about 2-3 years.
4. Another brother was born when I was 8. I cried.
5. At the age of 9, I was mercilessly thrown into an all-girls boarding school in Ashford, Kent.
6. My mother made me a dress for my 10th birthday and I sulked throughout the party thrown for me.
7. I used to get severely homesick at school and the stress and the worry brought on epileptic fits. (Few and far apart, thankfully).
8. My parents, aka The Aliens, moved to Belgium.
9. My paternal grandmother died.
10. I didn't do very well during the 11+.
11. Alien-father was a bully at the end of each term when I had to present to him, whilst peeing down one leg, my report.
12. 1977 was the Jubilee Year and my grandpa took my brother (just a bit younger than me) and I to the Isle of Wight. This, I only remember, because that was the last time I ever had a fight with afore-mentioned brother. When I next saw him, at the end of term, he was bigger than me. Yikes.
13. The younger two brothers started boarding school aged 7 sometime here.
14. When Alien-mother was angry with the-now-bigger-brother and I, she'd send us to the African Museum for an hour or two. My god, did we get bored of staring at the shrunken head.
15. We went to Majorca once, on holiday. (Wow).
16. The Aliens moved into a huge house in Bromley.
17. Career-choosing time at school .... turned into a fucking disaster. Everything and anything I ever wanted to be was wrong. My dream (which actually lasted longer than a term-time, so it was THE career I wanted) was crushed by The Aliens. So I never became an occupational therapist, dealing with handicapped children.
18. I lost my virginity at 16 - which is the reason why, according to The Aliens, that I did so badly during my 'O' levels.
19. I threatened to leave school which upset Alien-father greatly, so I blackmailed him into letting me go to a co-ed school as living like a nun was driving me nuts. Of course, I won, and started at Kent College, Canterbury.
20. I settled in the new school with the aim of achieving 3 'A' levels. I dropped French after a year - the teacher was barking.
21. I was suspended - but I have no recollection as to why. A whole week without school was a treat in my books.
22. I was involved in a car crash on 14 February, 1981 (I think. I'm no good at maths) and spent my 18th birthday in hospital.
23. Due to a broken clavicle, I failed my 'A' levels (it's hard to draw when the arm you write with is in a sling) - but at least I 'sat' them.
24. I went out to Senegal where The Aliens were living and Alien Father sent me back after a couple of weeks as he didn't approve of my boyfriend. Bloody cheek.
25. Pissed off and penniless I moved to a smaller country where I was sure that I wouldn't get lost, got some seedy job and life in Belgium started.
26. I met my first husband pretty soon after my move over here. Zoe, you have absolutely no taste.
27. I got a job at the Fiji Embassy.
28. I got divorced pretty soon into the marriage.
29. After a couple more jobs, I met my next husband-to-be.
30. Twins were conceived and born on 24/6/89 - a 'model birth' apparently - but still something that I remember well. Perhaps it was the fact that I didn't have an epidural.
31. Got the part-time job that I'm still at now.
32. I got married.
33. Gave birth to a boy on 8/8/93 - something that no one, and I mean, no one, would ever forget. I couldn't sit down for 3 weeks afterwards.
34. My then husband and I bought a house.
35. Things started to go horribly wrong and my husband and I grew very, very far apart. Had he moved to Australia it wouldn't have been far away enough.
36. He finally left in 1999.
37. Life became extremely tough financially - something that hasn't changed at all.
38. I had a back operation to remove a pinched nerve in my back at the end of 2000.
39. I passed out in the shower and broke my 2 front teeth in 2001.
40. I met the Twat in 2001 and life changed considerably.
There. I made it to 40. Alzheimer's is not upon me - yet.
1. I killed Sam, my turtle, when I was about 5, and living in Japan.
2. Another brother was born. I already had one younger brother and he and I insisted that this boy should be called 'Jo'. And he is to this day.
3. My family (and I, obviously) returned to England and I lived in Croydon for about 2-3 years.
4. Another brother was born when I was 8. I cried.
5. At the age of 9, I was mercilessly thrown into an all-girls boarding school in Ashford, Kent.
6. My mother made me a dress for my 10th birthday and I sulked throughout the party thrown for me.
7. I used to get severely homesick at school and the stress and the worry brought on epileptic fits. (Few and far apart, thankfully).
8. My parents, aka The Aliens, moved to Belgium.
9. My paternal grandmother died.
10. I didn't do very well during the 11+.
11. Alien-father was a bully at the end of each term when I had to present to him, whilst peeing down one leg, my report.
12. 1977 was the Jubilee Year and my grandpa took my brother (just a bit younger than me) and I to the Isle of Wight. This, I only remember, because that was the last time I ever had a fight with afore-mentioned brother. When I next saw him, at the end of term, he was bigger than me. Yikes.
13. The younger two brothers started boarding school aged 7 sometime here.
14. When Alien-mother was angry with the-now-bigger-brother and I, she'd send us to the African Museum for an hour or two. My god, did we get bored of staring at the shrunken head.
15. We went to Majorca once, on holiday. (Wow).
16. The Aliens moved into a huge house in Bromley.
17. Career-choosing time at school .... turned into a fucking disaster. Everything and anything I ever wanted to be was wrong. My dream (which actually lasted longer than a term-time, so it was THE career I wanted) was crushed by The Aliens. So I never became an occupational therapist, dealing with handicapped children.
18. I lost my virginity at 16 - which is the reason why, according to The Aliens, that I did so badly during my 'O' levels.
19. I threatened to leave school which upset Alien-father greatly, so I blackmailed him into letting me go to a co-ed school as living like a nun was driving me nuts. Of course, I won, and started at Kent College, Canterbury.
20. I settled in the new school with the aim of achieving 3 'A' levels. I dropped French after a year - the teacher was barking.
21. I was suspended - but I have no recollection as to why. A whole week without school was a treat in my books.
22. I was involved in a car crash on 14 February, 1981 (I think. I'm no good at maths) and spent my 18th birthday in hospital.
23. Due to a broken clavicle, I failed my 'A' levels (it's hard to draw when the arm you write with is in a sling) - but at least I 'sat' them.
24. I went out to Senegal where The Aliens were living and Alien Father sent me back after a couple of weeks as he didn't approve of my boyfriend. Bloody cheek.
25. Pissed off and penniless I moved to a smaller country where I was sure that I wouldn't get lost, got some seedy job and life in Belgium started.
26. I met my first husband pretty soon after my move over here. Zoe, you have absolutely no taste.
27. I got a job at the Fiji Embassy.
28. I got divorced pretty soon into the marriage.
29. After a couple more jobs, I met my next husband-to-be.
30. Twins were conceived and born on 24/6/89 - a 'model birth' apparently - but still something that I remember well. Perhaps it was the fact that I didn't have an epidural.
31. Got the part-time job that I'm still at now.
32. I got married.
33. Gave birth to a boy on 8/8/93 - something that no one, and I mean, no one, would ever forget. I couldn't sit down for 3 weeks afterwards.
34. My then husband and I bought a house.
35. Things started to go horribly wrong and my husband and I grew very, very far apart. Had he moved to Australia it wouldn't have been far away enough.
36. He finally left in 1999.
37. Life became extremely tough financially - something that hasn't changed at all.
38. I had a back operation to remove a pinched nerve in my back at the end of 2000.
39. I passed out in the shower and broke my 2 front teeth in 2001.
40. I met the Twat in 2001 and life changed considerably.
There. I made it to 40. Alzheimer's is not upon me - yet.
Monday, February 17, 2003
FOR SALE.
One 9 year old boy, house-trained (sort-of), speaks French and English, possibility of being the answer to the next Marc Wilmots from the Belgian National Football Team. Inexpense to look after.
Sold to the highest bidder.
One 9 year old boy, house-trained (sort-of), speaks French and English, possibility of being the answer to the next Marc Wilmots from the Belgian National Football Team. Inexpense to look after.
Sold to the highest bidder.
I am going to have to take action. There is no use ignoring the matter, or trying to hide from it. I have tried, but it's there, each and every day. Staring at me. Infact, I'm sure it's sniggering in some sadastic manner because I hear these whispers at night saying "I can get away with it because I'm a man." But I will not tolerate it any longer. That's it. The world should be let in on the rather obvious secret : The Twat has put on weight.
It all started when I told him to stop smoking. He was smoking rather a lot, and my garden, aka 'the ashtray', was beginning to look like a cemetry for cigarette butts. I admit that I was smoking too, but not much. Not like the Twat, so I gave up - apart from the occasional fag when we go out. Anyway, I eventually forced the Twat to stop smoking by taking him to ER where he was hence hospitalised for 5 days. A bit drastic, you may think, considering the bill has amounted to over 2000 euros (I have yet to sort out the Twat's health insurance) - but it worked.
When the Twat entered hospital, his lung capacity (for oxygen, I presume) was barely 1 litre, rather than the good ol' 5-6 litres. The oxygen level in his blood was 60 %. I don't know why he wasn't dead, to be honest. So I left him in ER, rushed off home to get some stuff for him and came back only to find him chatting up the nurses. Whatever tickles his fancy, I suppose.
And so, 5 days later, the Twat was discharged with a little more oxygen in him and colour in his cheeks. And it has become extremely apparent that his attempts at smoking ?clairs, lumps of cheese and sandwiches simply haven't worked, and so the Twat has eaten them. And a lot of them too. So now it's his turn to ask me "Does my arse look big in this ?". Too fucking right it does.
The solution is going to be a difficult one as Lardarse is (almost) as lazy as me and drives everywhere. Dieting is out of the question, so it has to be exercise, exercise, exercise. Once the weather gets warmer we could get the bikes out and cycle. I love cycling and this is obvious. Both of my bicycle tires are both flat. I could get the Twat to take up jogging - not that I can accompany him; I have a dodgy knee and collapsable ankles.
Swimming ? No, no - the Twat doesn't understand why it is forbidden to wear 'boxer trunks' and obligatory to wear a swimming hat in the pools over here.
Walking ? That's rather a slow way of losing weight.
Gym ? The 'Twat' and a 'Gym' are words that shouldn't be used in the same sentence, on the same page or even on the same weblog.
There must be a way, as "My Boyfriend is Fat" just doesn't have the same ring to it.
It all started when I told him to stop smoking. He was smoking rather a lot, and my garden, aka 'the ashtray', was beginning to look like a cemetry for cigarette butts. I admit that I was smoking too, but not much. Not like the Twat, so I gave up - apart from the occasional fag when we go out. Anyway, I eventually forced the Twat to stop smoking by taking him to ER where he was hence hospitalised for 5 days. A bit drastic, you may think, considering the bill has amounted to over 2000 euros (I have yet to sort out the Twat's health insurance) - but it worked.
When the Twat entered hospital, his lung capacity (for oxygen, I presume) was barely 1 litre, rather than the good ol' 5-6 litres. The oxygen level in his blood was 60 %. I don't know why he wasn't dead, to be honest. So I left him in ER, rushed off home to get some stuff for him and came back only to find him chatting up the nurses. Whatever tickles his fancy, I suppose.
And so, 5 days later, the Twat was discharged with a little more oxygen in him and colour in his cheeks. And it has become extremely apparent that his attempts at smoking ?clairs, lumps of cheese and sandwiches simply haven't worked, and so the Twat has eaten them. And a lot of them too. So now it's his turn to ask me "Does my arse look big in this ?". Too fucking right it does.
The solution is going to be a difficult one as Lardarse is (almost) as lazy as me and drives everywhere. Dieting is out of the question, so it has to be exercise, exercise, exercise. Once the weather gets warmer we could get the bikes out and cycle. I love cycling and this is obvious. Both of my bicycle tires are both flat. I could get the Twat to take up jogging - not that I can accompany him; I have a dodgy knee and collapsable ankles.
Swimming ? No, no - the Twat doesn't understand why it is forbidden to wear 'boxer trunks' and obligatory to wear a swimming hat in the pools over here.
Walking ? That's rather a slow way of losing weight.
Gym ? The 'Twat' and a 'Gym' are words that shouldn't be used in the same sentence, on the same page or even on the same weblog.
There must be a way, as "My Boyfriend is Fat" just doesn't have the same ring to it.
Sunday, February 16, 2003
What a lovely day for a walk. Yesterday, the Twat and Sproglet joined me and around 50 - 60 thousand others on the march against war in Irak. The weather was beautiful (and, note, dry) as we joined the Unions, politicians, NGOs and many more, along the route towards the Gare du Midi.
Sproglet whinged incessantly about being thirsty whilst the Twat was waving his camera around aimlessly in the air trying to take photos. Admittedly, quite a few came out - but I think that those were the ones he took 'properly'. This banner was, I think, priceless :
The Twat, of course, was too busy texting his mate in Liverpool about the latest statements made by Blair in Glasgow to try and converse with me. So I told Sproglet to start whining at him, not me.
There were a few speeches (well, when they started in Flemish we decided we'd heard enough) at the end and some pretty good music too. Well, 2 of the songs were. The long, whinging ditty about El Salvador drove most of the crowd away. So we turned back and headed for the Metro only to find that the march was far from over. We settled on the steps at La Bourse where young blokes with the worst dreadlocks ever seen were playing the jembe.
Much to Sproglet's chagrin, we joined in, watching the rest of the march go by as kids in their early twenties danced hideously badly to the rythmn. It only occurred to me after about 10 minutes that they were all totally stoned out of their minds. I have never, never seen so many joints being passed around in public.
I really should get out more.
Sproglet whinged incessantly about being thirsty whilst the Twat was waving his camera around aimlessly in the air trying to take photos. Admittedly, quite a few came out - but I think that those were the ones he took 'properly'. This banner was, I think, priceless :
The Twat, of course, was too busy texting his mate in Liverpool about the latest statements made by Blair in Glasgow to try and converse with me. So I told Sproglet to start whining at him, not me.
There were a few speeches (well, when they started in Flemish we decided we'd heard enough) at the end and some pretty good music too. Well, 2 of the songs were. The long, whinging ditty about El Salvador drove most of the crowd away. So we turned back and headed for the Metro only to find that the march was far from over. We settled on the steps at La Bourse where young blokes with the worst dreadlocks ever seen were playing the jembe.
Much to Sproglet's chagrin, we joined in, watching the rest of the march go by as kids in their early twenties danced hideously badly to the rythmn. It only occurred to me after about 10 minutes that they were all totally stoned out of their minds. I have never, never seen so many joints being passed around in public.
I really should get out more.
Friday, February 14, 2003
OK, you just can't avoid it, can you ? St. Valentine's Day, that is. The shops, the colour red everywhere, the 'I hate St. Valentine's Day' protestors - it's in your face. So as usual, the alarm went off this morning, the Twat got out of bed to get his coffee and my tea, and turn on Bruce (the computer).
He must have seen something on the internet as the Twat suddenly squeaked "oh, it's St. Valentine's Day". This was followed by silence. One of those horribly silent sort of silences. I was wondering why, really, as he had boldly told me on Wednesday that he had bought me a VD present and a birthday present. So suddenly the Twat squeaked again.
"Well, I'd better give you your present, then."
"Why ever not ?" I muttered as I got out of bed, as it was clear that this present wasn't coming to me - I had to go to the present.
The Twat continued on the computer whilst I sat there, confused. I've never really celebrated VD, so having a partner to share this day with is rather nice - and rather new. Although I can't for the life of me remember what he gave me last year. Anyway, the Twat continued playing around and then said :
"What do you want to call it ?"
'It' ? Had I given birth without knowing ? Was there a silent puppy in the house somewhere ? Name what ? Clueless, and with absolutely no idea what the Twat was on about, I had to ask him. Name what ?
"Your domain name."
???
"I'm buying you a domain name for your weblog for St. Valentine's Day."
Well, this made just about as much sense to me as the cooking instructions on the back of my packet of Thai noodles. So the Twat carefully explained the implications of what it meant and the domain name should be up and running shortly. Sweet, I thought. I can pretend to know about computers soon.
And in return, I have renewed the Twat's subscription to Private Eye.
In the meantime, however, the kids are back. And loud.
He must have seen something on the internet as the Twat suddenly squeaked "oh, it's St. Valentine's Day". This was followed by silence. One of those horribly silent sort of silences. I was wondering why, really, as he had boldly told me on Wednesday that he had bought me a VD present and a birthday present. So suddenly the Twat squeaked again.
"Well, I'd better give you your present, then."
"Why ever not ?" I muttered as I got out of bed, as it was clear that this present wasn't coming to me - I had to go to the present.
The Twat continued on the computer whilst I sat there, confused. I've never really celebrated VD, so having a partner to share this day with is rather nice - and rather new. Although I can't for the life of me remember what he gave me last year. Anyway, the Twat continued playing around and then said :
"What do you want to call it ?"
'It' ? Had I given birth without knowing ? Was there a silent puppy in the house somewhere ? Name what ? Clueless, and with absolutely no idea what the Twat was on about, I had to ask him. Name what ?
"Your domain name."
???
"I'm buying you a domain name for your weblog for St. Valentine's Day."
Well, this made just about as much sense to me as the cooking instructions on the back of my packet of Thai noodles. So the Twat carefully explained the implications of what it meant and the domain name should be up and running shortly. Sweet, I thought. I can pretend to know about computers soon.
And in return, I have renewed the Twat's subscription to Private Eye.
In the meantime, however, the kids are back. And loud.
Thursday, February 13, 2003
The Spanish Inquisition. As promised, although a day or two late, here it is. The Twat's feeble answers to my questions about the empty jars, found in the fridge after he had left for Blightly.
The Evidence.
I forced the Twat to sit down and look at the jars. I mean, they have been on the kitchen table since his return (Tuesday), so it was time to tell the truth. Or at least, his version of the truth.
Me : "Jar one from Exhibit A : Chutney.
Now do tell me why this empy jar has been put back in the fridge."
The Guilty, after examining the pot and opening it : "It's not mine."
Me : "I know that, but you did have some, you have eaten some, the children don't eat it, so it has to be you."
The Guilty : "Not mine."
Me : "Okay. Now jar n?. 2 : Mango Chutney. Can you explain to me ..."
The Guilty : "Yes. I put it in the fridge 'coz I thought it was nice."
Me : "Nice ? You returned an empty jar of Mango Chutney to the fridge because you thought it was nice ?"
The Guilty : "Well, yeah, and so I could fill it up with water and add it to a Thai sauce and make it nicer 'coz it's nice and stuff."
Me : "And I suppose this applies to the Chili Pickle too ? Don't answer, let's move on. I'm bored. These 2 jars - marmalade and jam. Make this a good explanation."
The Guilty, peering into each of the empty jars said : "There's enough in here to cover 2 slices of toast."
Me : "There isn't enough in there to feed a starving African, let alone cover a piece of toast. Let's look at Exhibit B. I know what you're going to say about the bowl."
The Guilty : "The bowl ? Dunno about that. Tell me, Sweetest."
Me : "Enough of your small talk, look at these jars of chocolate spread."
The Guilty opened one, said "That's not mine, it's Todd's." Then peered into the other empty chocolate spread jar and said "Nope. That's Todd's."
Me : "How strange. He rarely eats the stuff."
The Guilty : "Is Todd's. 'Appen."
Well, a rather strange trial if ever I witnessed one. The Twat used very few words and had a very poor defense, including blaming Sproglet. Can you imagine ? Sproglet ? My son ?? The Twat even tried t'up North speak, but I was having none of that.
So what did I do ? The Cumbrian sausages are now mine, so is the cheese, the HP Sauce and not just the one, but both jars of Marmite.
And no apologies to those who hate Marmite. Just a satisfied, smug grin.
It's great living with a Twat.
The Evidence.
I forced the Twat to sit down and look at the jars. I mean, they have been on the kitchen table since his return (Tuesday), so it was time to tell the truth. Or at least, his version of the truth.
Me : "Jar one from Exhibit A : Chutney.
Now do tell me why this empy jar has been put back in the fridge."
The Guilty, after examining the pot and opening it : "It's not mine."
Me : "I know that, but you did have some, you have eaten some, the children don't eat it, so it has to be you."
The Guilty : "Not mine."
Me : "Okay. Now jar n?. 2 : Mango Chutney. Can you explain to me ..."
The Guilty : "Yes. I put it in the fridge 'coz I thought it was nice."
Me : "Nice ? You returned an empty jar of Mango Chutney to the fridge because you thought it was nice ?"
The Guilty : "Well, yeah, and so I could fill it up with water and add it to a Thai sauce and make it nicer 'coz it's nice and stuff."
Me : "And I suppose this applies to the Chili Pickle too ? Don't answer, let's move on. I'm bored. These 2 jars - marmalade and jam. Make this a good explanation."
The Guilty, peering into each of the empty jars said : "There's enough in here to cover 2 slices of toast."
Me : "There isn't enough in there to feed a starving African, let alone cover a piece of toast. Let's look at Exhibit B. I know what you're going to say about the bowl."
The Guilty : "The bowl ? Dunno about that. Tell me, Sweetest."
Me : "Enough of your small talk, look at these jars of chocolate spread."
The Guilty opened one, said "That's not mine, it's Todd's." Then peered into the other empty chocolate spread jar and said "Nope. That's Todd's."
Me : "How strange. He rarely eats the stuff."
The Guilty : "Is Todd's. 'Appen."
Well, a rather strange trial if ever I witnessed one. The Twat used very few words and had a very poor defense, including blaming Sproglet. Can you imagine ? Sproglet ? My son ?? The Twat even tried t'up North speak, but I was having none of that.
So what did I do ? The Cumbrian sausages are now mine, so is the cheese, the HP Sauce and not just the one, but both jars of Marmite.
And no apologies to those who hate Marmite. Just a satisfied, smug grin.
It's great living with a Twat.
I before E, except after D ..... Looking at the links to several of the weblogs that I read, it appears that I don't know my alphabet yet. It's the Twat's fault, entirely. He shouldn't swear so much whilst I'm trying to concentrate.
On the alphabet.
On the alphabet.
Wednesday, February 12, 2003
There are times when I just have to scratch my head and wonder. The Twat came home last night, well before Eastenders (praise the Lord) and wearing a new coat. Well, it was more of an anorak than a coat - the Twat wouldn't be seen dead in a coat, but it was very nice and actually looked clean. Can you imagine ? He was there, the Twat, standing infront of me wearing a clean, new anorak. OK, so he had his poncy-poofy-tracky-trainers on, but this anorak. Wow.
A quick fast-forward to this morning and I was asking the Twat how much his anorak had cost him.
"Oh, it's an old one."
Me : "Old ? but I've never seen it before. You've never even mentioned it before."
The Twat : "I lent it to a friend about 5 years ago, and I bumped into him on the street so he gave it back."
So I tried to figure this one out. The Twat bumps into a friend to whom he had lent his anorak 5 years ago, and who promptly gave it back. Not only does it look clean, but it also looks new. There's no real point in getting to the bottom of the story, because there isn't one. That's it. The Twat lent an anorak to a friend about 5 years ago, bumped into him, par hasard, on the street and this friend promptly gave it back. Simple. I tell you, those people from t'up North really have me wondering. I wish my life could be as simple as that.
Anyway, going back to last night, the Twat emptied his absolutely filthy rucksack and filled the kitchen table with goodies that only the British can make : HP sauce, Cheddar cheese, Cumbrian sausages and not just one, but TWO jars of Marmite. And not just any old jar of Marmite, but the big jars. The joy, the love, the thought .....
It has made me wonder whether or not I should put the Twat through the empty jar Spanish Inquisition.
Yes, I really think I should.
A quick fast-forward to this morning and I was asking the Twat how much his anorak had cost him.
"Oh, it's an old one."
Me : "Old ? but I've never seen it before. You've never even mentioned it before."
The Twat : "I lent it to a friend about 5 years ago, and I bumped into him on the street so he gave it back."
So I tried to figure this one out. The Twat bumps into a friend to whom he had lent his anorak 5 years ago, and who promptly gave it back. Not only does it look clean, but it also looks new. There's no real point in getting to the bottom of the story, because there isn't one. That's it. The Twat lent an anorak to a friend about 5 years ago, bumped into him, par hasard, on the street and this friend promptly gave it back. Simple. I tell you, those people from t'up North really have me wondering. I wish my life could be as simple as that.
Anyway, going back to last night, the Twat emptied his absolutely filthy rucksack and filled the kitchen table with goodies that only the British can make : HP sauce, Cheddar cheese, Cumbrian sausages and not just one, but TWO jars of Marmite. And not just any old jar of Marmite, but the big jars. The joy, the love, the thought .....
It has made me wonder whether or not I should put the Twat through the empty jar Spanish Inquisition.
Yes, I really think I should.
Tuesday, February 11, 2003
And so the Twat is due home tonight. I can't actually remember what time he's due in as I deleted the text message that he sent me telling me the details, but nevermind. As long as he doesn't arrive during Eastenders.
It's all very easy. You see, it's called 'Abiding By The Rules'. Nobody calls Zoe during Eastenders. Nobody rings the doorbell during Eastenders. Nobody (and Heaven forbid) speaks to Zoe during Eastenders. I need complete calm so that I can sit and concentrate on the deeply clever and complicated plots that arise during this wonderful programme.
Even the Twat watches it with me. Actually, he started watching it with me as I could never remember what had happened during the episode the night before. The girls love it. We're hooked. We're faaaaamily. So, Quarsan, should you get home during Eastenders, delay your entry into the house until it's finished, will you ?
Don't be a twat and walk in, or I'll 'ave yer sorted, a'right ?
It's all very easy. You see, it's called 'Abiding By The Rules'. Nobody calls Zoe during Eastenders. Nobody rings the doorbell during Eastenders. Nobody (and Heaven forbid) speaks to Zoe during Eastenders. I need complete calm so that I can sit and concentrate on the deeply clever and complicated plots that arise during this wonderful programme.
Even the Twat watches it with me. Actually, he started watching it with me as I could never remember what had happened during the episode the night before. The girls love it. We're hooked. We're faaaaamily. So, Quarsan, should you get home during Eastenders, delay your entry into the house until it's finished, will you ?
Don't be a twat and walk in, or I'll 'ave yer sorted, a'right ?
Monday, February 10, 2003
I must not forget, I must not forget ... Did I ever mention that I have a simply awful memory ? I mean, not just the sort of memory that forgets trivial things, but the sort of memory that, well, gets things wrong. Like my partner's name.
Yes, I've admitted to yet another of my failings in life. Quarsan is often called 'Todd' (Sproglet's name), and if you think that's bad, then read this one. I often call him 'Charlie', my ex's name. That's bad. That's the sort of crime where I envisage Quarsan going bright red in the face and walking out, slamming the door behind him. But it's not just those 2 names I mistakenly call him by.
I have also called the Twat Coralie and even Tatiana. I have no idea what is wrong with me. I'll stumble along until I get the right name, and it usually goes like this :
"Oh, Charlie ?... oh sorry, Todd - erm, Coralie, erm ...OH FUCK IT. TWAT."
And the moron of a twat stands there, watching me getting fired up all over his sodding name. He finds it amusing. So no wonder I call him a Twat. I have even got his name mixed up with my ex-husband's name when talking to friends. They get ever so confused.
But not as confused as me. Trust me.
Yes, I've admitted to yet another of my failings in life. Quarsan is often called 'Todd' (Sproglet's name), and if you think that's bad, then read this one. I often call him 'Charlie', my ex's name. That's bad. That's the sort of crime where I envisage Quarsan going bright red in the face and walking out, slamming the door behind him. But it's not just those 2 names I mistakenly call him by.
I have also called the Twat Coralie and even Tatiana. I have no idea what is wrong with me. I'll stumble along until I get the right name, and it usually goes like this :
"Oh, Charlie ?... oh sorry, Todd - erm, Coralie, erm ...OH FUCK IT. TWAT."
And the moron of a twat stands there, watching me getting fired up all over his sodding name. He finds it amusing. So no wonder I call him a Twat. I have even got his name mixed up with my ex-husband's name when talking to friends. They get ever so confused.
But not as confused as me. Trust me.
Sunday, February 09, 2003
Not AGAIN ... As I ventured into my fridge this morning - a cruel and extremely scary thing to do, considering the amount of things that live in there, I found :
- 1 empty jam jar
- 1 empty jar of mango chutney
- 1 empty jar of marmalade
- 1 empty jar of lime pickle
- 1 empty bowl of salad
hmmmmmm. These jars will remain on the kitchen table until Tuesday evening, when the Twat will finally come home (Ryan Air permitting). What normally happens then is a detailed Spanish Inquisition. I want to know exactly why each jar/bowl, etc was replaced back into the fridge.
But it's not only the fridge. The cupboards too. Both jars of chocolate spread are in the cupboard. Both jars of chocolate spread are empty. These have been added to the kitchen table aswell, in section 2.
Details of the Spanish Inquisition may be given on Wednesday, if anyone is interested. The carton of milk that had so little milk in it that it took about 60 seconds to actually come out of the carton can be blamed on the sprogs. However, it is interesting to note down that the Twat is guilty of this too. It'll make his punishment last longer.
I'm thinking about taking finger-prints now. This is serious stuff, you know.
- 1 empty jam jar
- 1 empty jar of mango chutney
- 1 empty jar of marmalade
- 1 empty jar of lime pickle
- 1 empty bowl of salad
hmmmmmm. These jars will remain on the kitchen table until Tuesday evening, when the Twat will finally come home (Ryan Air permitting). What normally happens then is a detailed Spanish Inquisition. I want to know exactly why each jar/bowl, etc was replaced back into the fridge.
But it's not only the fridge. The cupboards too. Both jars of chocolate spread are in the cupboard. Both jars of chocolate spread are empty. These have been added to the kitchen table aswell, in section 2.
Details of the Spanish Inquisition may be given on Wednesday, if anyone is interested. The carton of milk that had so little milk in it that it took about 60 seconds to actually come out of the carton can be blamed on the sprogs. However, it is interesting to note down that the Twat is guilty of this too. It'll make his punishment last longer.
I'm thinking about taking finger-prints now. This is serious stuff, you know.
Friday, February 07, 2003
Peace and Quiet rules. Or does it ? I miss the fights between my children, the doors slamming, the verbal abuse they use on each other, the fight for the bathroom - the sort of things that have been happening at this time of day for the past week. Had the Twat been around, it would have been much more serene, children or no children.
At 7 pm you can place your bets that the Twat and Sproglet are sitting next to each other on the sofa watching ... The Simpsons. It's their favourite part of the day, it's their favourite programme. Infact, the pair of them get on rather too well for my liking.
You see, the Twat has taken it upon himself to do 'the school run'. As far as I am concerned, that simply means dropping Sproglet off at school in the mornings and picking him up in the afternoons. How kind and thoughtful, considering I must be the most lazy person alive.
But the things that those two get up to - how old is the Twat ? 40 ? Errr, not mentally, not by far. One of the things the little boys do (ie : Twat and Sproglet), is see how far the Twat can drive along the road to our house without steering. So far, only to house n?. 2. But it's something they do each and every school day. Whatever keeps them happy, I suppose.
And another game that those two play, is "who can imitate mama/Zoe the best when she's in a bad mood". I only found out about this when I was having a pink fit when Sproglet just couldn't retain anything in his memory. Ab-so-lut-ely no-thing. Sproglet must have gone upstairs for about the fifth time when the Twat turned to me and said :
"You know, darling, Todd can imitate you SO well."
It was my turn to look blank - a look that I'm pretty good at.
"Wha ?"
The Twat : "Yes, we see who can imitate you the best when you're angry."
At that point I thought it best to leave the kitchen where all the sharp knives are.
At 7 pm you can place your bets that the Twat and Sproglet are sitting next to each other on the sofa watching ... The Simpsons. It's their favourite part of the day, it's their favourite programme. Infact, the pair of them get on rather too well for my liking.
You see, the Twat has taken it upon himself to do 'the school run'. As far as I am concerned, that simply means dropping Sproglet off at school in the mornings and picking him up in the afternoons. How kind and thoughtful, considering I must be the most lazy person alive.
But the things that those two get up to - how old is the Twat ? 40 ? Errr, not mentally, not by far. One of the things the little boys do (ie : Twat and Sproglet), is see how far the Twat can drive along the road to our house without steering. So far, only to house n?. 2. But it's something they do each and every school day. Whatever keeps them happy, I suppose.
And another game that those two play, is "who can imitate mama/Zoe the best when she's in a bad mood". I only found out about this when I was having a pink fit when Sproglet just couldn't retain anything in his memory. Ab-so-lut-ely no-thing. Sproglet must have gone upstairs for about the fifth time when the Twat turned to me and said :
"You know, darling, Todd can imitate you SO well."
It was my turn to look blank - a look that I'm pretty good at.
"Wha ?"
The Twat : "Yes, we see who can imitate you the best when you're angry."
At that point I thought it best to leave the kitchen where all the sharp knives are.
An Embarrassing Confession. I woke up with a start this morning. Not only was my alarm going off like mad - and is on the loudest setting possible as I'm such a heavy sleeper, but I'd had a thought.
When I tried to unsuccessfully move the car the other day, I had the handbrake on.
When I tried to unsuccessfully move the car the other day, I had the handbrake on.
Thursday, February 06, 2003
I am so glad that mobile phones don't have porn filtres on them. Well, if they do exist, mine doesn't have one. The messages that the Twat has been sending me since last Sunday have actually made me blush. Yes, me, BLUSH. But let's get serious about mobile phones.
They are a pain in the arse if you're sitting in a restaurant, having an intimate meal, when OH, suddenly, out of the blue you hear Beethoven's 5th Symphony - or ... Las Ketchup's latest single. And what's worse ? That person cannot find their mobile. They will search each pocket, opening each sides of their jacket worn, their handbag, up their sleeves, down their cleavage even (haven't you seen the NEW mobiles - meant to be an ACCESSORY ?)
Whilst you get into the tune and actually start humming along to the music, if the person is female, the phone is usually at the bottom of her bag (Las Ketchup sort of person), and if it should be male, most likely on the table, right in front of him (Beethoven sort of person).
And then you see this long dialogue going on between person and phone whilst the other person eats slowly, raising eyebrows to the rest of the world yet evesdropping.
And then you have the Twat. Now he is a different kettle of fish altogether. I bought him a second-hand mobile phone just before he moved over here with the hope that he would get some work and could be easily contacted via his mobile. Oh Zoe, Zoe, Zoeeeeeee ....
Each time I wanted to contact him, his phone was either off - or left at home - or, and this is a valid reason - 'the battery had come off' .... This started to get on my tits so I bought him a new mobile (strangely enough, same model, same price ....) and would phone him or text him regularly to make bloody sure that he had the damn thing on him.
After 7 months (I kid you not, you read : S E V E N months) the Twat realised that I may have been vaguely serious. And he got some work. Why ? Because he had his mobile on him at the time. And on the occasional outing for a beer, the Twat would stand there texting messages to his best mate in the UK. Nevermind me.
But over the past two weeks, before he left for Blighty (that's Britain to you Nigel), he started leaving it at home again. This was most frustrating because if there are more than 2 things to get from the supermarket, the Twat needs to make out a list. Even if it's only 3 items. He needs a list. Whether or not he takes that list, I'm not sure, but that's his problem.
But how many times have I sat here and thought "Bugger, we need apples and a lettuce too." So I ring his trusty mobile from here .... and hear it ringing downstairs. Ah, Zoe, you may be saying, why the Hell don't you get off your fat arse and go shopping with him ?
Easy answer.
He can look at the cheap tarts without some deranged woman shouting at him down the phone.
They are a pain in the arse if you're sitting in a restaurant, having an intimate meal, when OH, suddenly, out of the blue you hear Beethoven's 5th Symphony - or ... Las Ketchup's latest single. And what's worse ? That person cannot find their mobile. They will search each pocket, opening each sides of their jacket worn, their handbag, up their sleeves, down their cleavage even (haven't you seen the NEW mobiles - meant to be an ACCESSORY ?)
Whilst you get into the tune and actually start humming along to the music, if the person is female, the phone is usually at the bottom of her bag (Las Ketchup sort of person), and if it should be male, most likely on the table, right in front of him (Beethoven sort of person).
And then you see this long dialogue going on between person and phone whilst the other person eats slowly, raising eyebrows to the rest of the world yet evesdropping.
And then you have the Twat. Now he is a different kettle of fish altogether. I bought him a second-hand mobile phone just before he moved over here with the hope that he would get some work and could be easily contacted via his mobile. Oh Zoe, Zoe, Zoeeeeeee ....
Each time I wanted to contact him, his phone was either off - or left at home - or, and this is a valid reason - 'the battery had come off' .... This started to get on my tits so I bought him a new mobile (strangely enough, same model, same price ....) and would phone him or text him regularly to make bloody sure that he had the damn thing on him.
After 7 months (I kid you not, you read : S E V E N months) the Twat realised that I may have been vaguely serious. And he got some work. Why ? Because he had his mobile on him at the time. And on the occasional outing for a beer, the Twat would stand there texting messages to his best mate in the UK. Nevermind me.
But over the past two weeks, before he left for Blighty (that's Britain to you Nigel), he started leaving it at home again. This was most frustrating because if there are more than 2 things to get from the supermarket, the Twat needs to make out a list. Even if it's only 3 items. He needs a list. Whether or not he takes that list, I'm not sure, but that's his problem.
But how many times have I sat here and thought "Bugger, we need apples and a lettuce too." So I ring his trusty mobile from here .... and hear it ringing downstairs. Ah, Zoe, you may be saying, why the Hell don't you get off your fat arse and go shopping with him ?
Easy answer.
He can look at the cheap tarts without some deranged woman shouting at him down the phone.
God, I'm frustrated. No, this has nothing to do with the absence of the Twat - well, yes, it does actually. It has everything to do with his absence.
You see, I was going to add another 6 non-Twats to my list. I'd been shown how but damn it, it didn't work. At least I didn't pull the blog to bits, I suppose. That's something I'm very good at doing : destroying things.
Why, only this morning I kicked over my hard drive at work. The screen went rather bizarre and I almost wept for joy - my crappy work computer was dead. At last. And I killed it. My joy was short-lived.
It still works.
You see, I was going to add another 6 non-Twats to my list. I'd been shown how but damn it, it didn't work. At least I didn't pull the blog to bits, I suppose. That's something I'm very good at doing : destroying things.
Why, only this morning I kicked over my hard drive at work. The screen went rather bizarre and I almost wept for joy - my crappy work computer was dead. At last. And I killed it. My joy was short-lived.
It still works.
Tuesday, February 04, 2003
Day 2 without the Twat, and believe it or not, the day started on this issue of socks. Yes, socks, and no, the Twat isn't even here. Mumblings and grumblings along the lines of "Mama, I don't have any pants or socks" were to be heard throughout the house this morning. Well damn those girls, it's about time that they learnt how to hand-wash their smalls.
As I took Sproglet to the tram this morning, I noticed that his rather phallic-looking snowman was looking more and more like a perky nipple. It's not often that one makes a snowman to resemble oneself, but Sproglet did.
"Oh, but it's a thin snowman, Mama, like me !" said the little cherub when I questioned him on the shape of his snowman last Saturday. It takes all sorts, I suppose.
I came home only to get the car engine going for a bit - and i actually tried to move the thing. Despite the fact that I can't drive (you read it here first) will explain why, after several kangaroo leaps, the car stalled. Not to be out-done, I tried again. And again. And now I've blocked the pathway to the house so it looks like I'm going to have to ask some poor, unsuspecting neighbour to put the damn thing back where it was.
The Twat texted me as to his on-going progress on the top of his mountain - he's moved 40 tonnes of rock today. Well, you'd have to come from t'up North to do anything half as barking as that. I mean, who goes around shifting rock from mountain to mountain for a living apart from Obelyx ? And even he didn't do it for a living - I think it was just one of his accessories. A bit like a lady's handbag.
And then, as I was typing away to someone, WW III broke out behind me. Miss Stroppy-Little-Cow versus Sproglet over who gets onto Bruce first. It's my fucking computer so I told them that they both had to wait. Coralie looked at me and squeezed these tears out whilst Sproglet thumped off into his bedroom yelling obscenities at his sister.
It was obvious who I felt most sorry for. Myself.
As I took Sproglet to the tram this morning, I noticed that his rather phallic-looking snowman was looking more and more like a perky nipple. It's not often that one makes a snowman to resemble oneself, but Sproglet did.
"Oh, but it's a thin snowman, Mama, like me !" said the little cherub when I questioned him on the shape of his snowman last Saturday. It takes all sorts, I suppose.
I came home only to get the car engine going for a bit - and i actually tried to move the thing. Despite the fact that I can't drive (you read it here first) will explain why, after several kangaroo leaps, the car stalled. Not to be out-done, I tried again. And again. And now I've blocked the pathway to the house so it looks like I'm going to have to ask some poor, unsuspecting neighbour to put the damn thing back where it was.
The Twat texted me as to his on-going progress on the top of his mountain - he's moved 40 tonnes of rock today. Well, you'd have to come from t'up North to do anything half as barking as that. I mean, who goes around shifting rock from mountain to mountain for a living apart from Obelyx ? And even he didn't do it for a living - I think it was just one of his accessories. A bit like a lady's handbag.
And then, as I was typing away to someone, WW III broke out behind me. Miss Stroppy-Little-Cow versus Sproglet over who gets onto Bruce first. It's my fucking computer so I told them that they both had to wait. Coralie looked at me and squeezed these tears out whilst Sproglet thumped off into his bedroom yelling obscenities at his sister.
It was obvious who I felt most sorry for. Myself.
Everybody's talking about it, so why not ? 'It' being Michael Jackson. The man is totally deranged. Ok, that's not news to anyone, but I mean, really deranged, as in totally out of his head. MJ should not even be allowed near children or people or the planet Earth.
And the way I see it, and this is what you are all wanting to know, is that MJ is encouraging paedophilia by telling the world (well, just Blighty, so far) that everyone should sleep with their kid's friends. What the fuck did he mean by that ? Talk about digging your own grave.
And if you want the honest truth I'm also pissed off as I bet the Twat saw it in Blighty in some cushy B&B and will be blogging it all along with his damn perma-hyper-super-duper-links.
It has actually raised a little voice inside of me which is saying "should you allow sproglet to sleep with you ?" I have to question my sanity when I feel that Michael Jackson, of all people, is getting to me. And he's not just getting to me, he's making me wonder if what I'm doing is right.
I wish the Twat would come home and spill coffee everywhere and make life daft again. I said that it was a bad thing to leave me alone.
And I was right.
And the way I see it, and this is what you are all wanting to know, is that MJ is encouraging paedophilia by telling the world (well, just Blighty, so far) that everyone should sleep with their kid's friends. What the fuck did he mean by that ? Talk about digging your own grave.
And if you want the honest truth I'm also pissed off as I bet the Twat saw it in Blighty in some cushy B&B and will be blogging it all along with his damn perma-hyper-super-duper-links.
It has actually raised a little voice inside of me which is saying "should you allow sproglet to sleep with you ?" I have to question my sanity when I feel that Michael Jackson, of all people, is getting to me. And he's not just getting to me, he's making me wonder if what I'm doing is right.
I wish the Twat would come home and spill coffee everywhere and make life daft again. I said that it was a bad thing to leave me alone.
And I was right.
I can't stand this anymore. Coralie has just texted me from her school saying :
"Honey, Vicks, nose-drops."
Well hey, darling, I'm the boss around here - so get them yourself.
"Honey, Vicks, nose-drops."
Well hey, darling, I'm the boss around here - so get them yourself.
Monday, February 03, 2003
It concerns me that the most that the Twat has had to say so far about his trip to Blighty is as follows :
"The flapjacks were great."
"Chris has a Rick Astley haircut."
"We're off to have pie and chips now."
"Chris has a Rick Astley haircut."
"We're off to have bangers, mash and peas now."
"Chris has a Rick Astley haircut."
I find the things that the Twat finds important in his life - apart from food - to be somewhat bizarre. I mean, what's with all the repetition ?
"The flapjacks were great."
"Chris has a Rick Astley haircut."
"We're off to have pie and chips now."
"Chris has a Rick Astley haircut."
"We're off to have bangers, mash and peas now."
"Chris has a Rick Astley haircut."
I find the things that the Twat finds important in his life - apart from food - to be somewhat bizarre. I mean, what's with all the repetition ?
Day 1 without the Twat, and I haven't, as yet, broken down in tears, sent him text messages at 5 minute intervals telling him how great life is without him or even sent him an email saying how good I hope the view is from the top of his mountain.
Actually, I've been pissed off. I want to learn how to do permalinks. But can I ? Of course not. My twat of an html teacher has buggered off t'up North (just for you, Nigel) to stand on top of a mountain. As one does.
I must also confess that I didn't buy the Vick's nasal thingy for Coralie (and thank god, she hasn't noticed), nor did I buy any honey for Miss Nib's Lemsip. Because I forgot, and that's a fine reason.
A second confession is my laziness. I'm an extremely lazy person (which I'll put in the 'All About Me' section one day - but remember, you read it here first), and I hate myself for it. A fine example would be when I came home from work I didn't make myself a cup of tea for 2 reasons. a) the Twat normally makes me one, so it wouldn't be right, and b) I needed the loo, so if I made myself a cuppa it would only make me want to go even more.
So I watched Friday's episode of 'Eastbenders', parched, and finally couldn't retain myself. I had to go. But there was no way I was going to make that cuppa. I did some reading and waited for my daughters to come home. And when they did, they made me a lovely mug of tea.
Eh oh, Twat, life's great, innit ?
Actually, I've been pissed off. I want to learn how to do permalinks. But can I ? Of course not. My twat of an html teacher has buggered off t'up North (just for you, Nigel) to stand on top of a mountain. As one does.
I must also confess that I didn't buy the Vick's nasal thingy for Coralie (and thank god, she hasn't noticed), nor did I buy any honey for Miss Nib's Lemsip. Because I forgot, and that's a fine reason.
A second confession is my laziness. I'm an extremely lazy person (which I'll put in the 'All About Me' section one day - but remember, you read it here first), and I hate myself for it. A fine example would be when I came home from work I didn't make myself a cup of tea for 2 reasons. a) the Twat normally makes me one, so it wouldn't be right, and b) I needed the loo, so if I made myself a cuppa it would only make me want to go even more.
So I watched Friday's episode of 'Eastbenders', parched, and finally couldn't retain myself. I had to go. But there was no way I was going to make that cuppa. I did some reading and waited for my daughters to come home. And when they did, they made me a lovely mug of tea.
Eh oh, Twat, life's great, innit ?
Sunday, February 02, 2003
It's not a good thing, leaving me alone. I start thinking. People usually back off when I say this, but personally, I think that thinking is a healthy thing to do. Well, I think so.
Whilst Coralie is croaking away in the bathroom and as Robbie Williams sings to me (I can't find my Alabama3 CD, damn it) I want to change things. The background of this weblog, for a start. But how ? You may think it's easy, but Bruce (my computer) has jaundice. That's one way of saying that the screen is yellow and has been for over a year.
I want different posts made in one day separated somehow. I'd also like to learn how to use the video recorder that I've had for 18 months - the Twat managed to work it out from the French manual and his French - at the time, was absolutely crap.
And if I carry on thinking like this, I'll come up with ideas as to how to change the world.
I wish Sproglet would come home. He's great, in a rather painful way.
He called me 'salope' this morning.
Whilst Coralie is croaking away in the bathroom and as Robbie Williams sings to me (I can't find my Alabama3 CD, damn it) I want to change things. The background of this weblog, for a start. But how ? You may think it's easy, but Bruce (my computer) has jaundice. That's one way of saying that the screen is yellow and has been for over a year.
I want different posts made in one day separated somehow. I'd also like to learn how to use the video recorder that I've had for 18 months - the Twat managed to work it out from the French manual and his French - at the time, was absolutely crap.
And if I carry on thinking like this, I'll come up with ideas as to how to change the world.
I wish Sproglet would come home. He's great, in a rather painful way.
He called me 'salope' this morning.
Snow. You would have thought that by now public transport and the likes can deal with snow. I mean, it is 2003. But the UK grinds to a halt at a mere 2 inches of snow, and Charleroi's airport is no better. You see, it all started like this ....
I was a little bit sad yesterday morning as the Twat was leaving for Blighty (that's Britain to you, Nigel) to go and stand on a mountain. As he does. A friend of ours' in Holland came to stay and cheer me up - and also offered to drive the Twat to Charleroi Airport. The conversation at the airport between the Twat and this 'dear' friend, as the Twat said his goodbyes, went as following :
Twat : "Thanks ever so much - and good luck".
'Friend' : "My pleasure. Errr - may I come with you ?"
I was a little bit sad yesterday morning as the Twat was leaving for Blighty (that's Britain to you, Nigel) to go and stand on a mountain. As he does. A friend of ours' in Holland came to stay and cheer me up - and also offered to drive the Twat to Charleroi Airport. The conversation at the airport between the Twat and this 'dear' friend, as the Twat said his goodbyes, went as following :
Twat : "Thanks ever so much - and good luck".
'Friend' : "My pleasure. Errr - may I come with you ?"
Well, I just grunted, got in the car and we left as the first few snowflakes started to fall. By the time we got home, the snow looked positively serious about settling and doing it's stuff so I suggested a quick run to the supermarket before it got icey. Upon arrival at the supermarket, my phone rang. Yep, the Twat was stranded at the airport. The plane wasn't going anywhere.
Determined to get to Liverpool, I was asked to look up the weather conditions, flight times, options - well, anything to help get the Twat out of the country. My reply was simple : listen mate, you aren't leaving the country today. The best de-icing method they have on the runways at Charleroi Airport are two blokes with a cigarette lighter each. So get a reservation on a flight leaving on Sunday and come home.
This all tied in rather nicely as a very good friend of ours' happens to be in Belgium this week - rather than Beijing, where he works - and was coming to visit on Sunday morning. Midday came and it was time to leave for the airport again. We dropped off our friend somewhere down the motorway, got to the airport where everything seemed to be functioning as normally as you can expect Ryan Air to function.
The Twat had really out-done himself today. Dressed in his poncy-poofy-tracky-trainers and barbour which has half of Cumbria on it, I was surprised that anyone would let him on their plane. Even Ryan Air.
But it wasn't just that. Sproglet noticed that his hiking boots were falling apart and had a gaping big hole in them along the side. But that was not all. The bit of material that should go under his foot on his left leg was, as usual, sticking over the heel of his boot. But not his right leg. It was resting on top of his right foot. Thank god the fashion-police weren't on duty - I'd have died of excrutiating embarrassment.
So we were down to 3 people now and stopped off on the way home for a burger where we managed to leave Sproglet. Life was just starting to get good until my Dutch friend decided it was my turn to leave the car he as pulled up infront of the house; he had to return home.
I found that the girls had already returned from their jaunt in the middle of nowhere with their group of Guides. And yes, it was cold, wherever they were - one of the two has almost lost her voice (yessss, there is a god).
And on the sock issue ... The pair of socks that I claimed would only last 2 days max. - well, they have a large hole in them.
I have witnesses.
Determined to get to Liverpool, I was asked to look up the weather conditions, flight times, options - well, anything to help get the Twat out of the country. My reply was simple : listen mate, you aren't leaving the country today. The best de-icing method they have on the runways at Charleroi Airport are two blokes with a cigarette lighter each. So get a reservation on a flight leaving on Sunday and come home.
This all tied in rather nicely as a very good friend of ours' happens to be in Belgium this week - rather than Beijing, where he works - and was coming to visit on Sunday morning. Midday came and it was time to leave for the airport again. We dropped off our friend somewhere down the motorway, got to the airport where everything seemed to be functioning as normally as you can expect Ryan Air to function.
The Twat had really out-done himself today. Dressed in his poncy-poofy-tracky-trainers and barbour which has half of Cumbria on it, I was surprised that anyone would let him on their plane. Even Ryan Air.
But it wasn't just that. Sproglet noticed that his hiking boots were falling apart and had a gaping big hole in them along the side. But that was not all. The bit of material that should go under his foot on his left leg was, as usual, sticking over the heel of his boot. But not his right leg. It was resting on top of his right foot. Thank god the fashion-police weren't on duty - I'd have died of excrutiating embarrassment.
So we were down to 3 people now and stopped off on the way home for a burger where we managed to leave Sproglet. Life was just starting to get good until my Dutch friend decided it was my turn to leave the car he as pulled up infront of the house; he had to return home.
I found that the girls had already returned from their jaunt in the middle of nowhere with their group of Guides. And yes, it was cold, wherever they were - one of the two has almost lost her voice (yessss, there is a god).
And on the sock issue ... The pair of socks that I claimed would only last 2 days max. - well, they have a large hole in them.
I have witnesses.