Sick Stairs Bro

I don’t think you should ever under-estimate the adhesive powers of cat sick.

On Sunday I came home from work and was bumbling about doing bits and bobs before Carole arrived home from an eventful day out with my mother (who, it seems, has turned into a cantankerous old so-and-so recently). I went upstairs to get changed from my work clothes into general slobbing about clothes.

For me, this also means removing shoes and socks. I like to pad about bare footed. I always have and I probably always will.

Apart from when you stand in cat sick three stairs down from the top.

For starters, how I missed it on the way up I do not know.

But for seconders.. it’s horrible to stand in. I wouldn’t recommend it. At all. In the slightest. It was cold, for starters. Cold and squidgy. Like a cold, squidgy thing. And it adhered to the bottom of my foot.

I was three steps from the top of the stairs, on my way down. My hands were full, as I was transporting a basket of washing. There’s not a lot you can do in that situation. Most of them play out like the opening few minutes of Casualty, seeing me tumble down the stairs.

Covered in cat sick, to add insult to what would most definitely be injury.

I tried shaking the sick of my foot.

It wouldn’t budge. I mean, in a way I’m glad it didn’t. Because it would have gone somewhere, and I’d have had to track it and search extensively to make sure I had found it all. And no-one wants to explain how there is cat sick on the walls.

In the end, still with basket in hand which meant that I couldn’t really see where on my foot the offending gunk was (and, initially, couldn’t see what I’d stood in at all which lead to numerous scenarios running through my head), I had to kind of scrape my foot along the stair. In a style which would be familiar to anyone who has stood on dog shit and had to make their way to the nearest patch of grass to drag their foot across it.

It was disgusting.

Even just thinking about it makes me shudder a little.

Because Peppa is on dry food, her sick is sort of the consistency of Weetabix in just enough milk. Like you could plaster a wall with it.

And it was so cold. So cold. And disgusting.

But, still, at least it wasn’t crap. Which is what I initially thought it was. Along with a dead creature that my step had, well, ruptured and countless other ideas.

Having a cat is lovely. She’s absolutely adorable and lovely.

99% percent of the time.


Accidental Sex Sheep

I know that online shopping can be tricky.

There are numerous click-bait websites offering slideshows of hilarious online shopping fails where people have purchased doll house furniture thinking it’s the real thing at a low, low price. Even Sara Pascoe has been on Would I Lie To You? with a tiny chest of drawers that she bought thinking it was a full size one. And those who follow her on Instagram will know she also recently bought a tiny rucksack by accident as well.

Carole once bought the smallest bag of frozen peas available to humankind. A guy I used to work with ordered bananas which would have still looked small if you viewed them through a magnifying lens. Shit like that happens, is what I’m saying.

But I don’t know how you can buy an inflatable sex sheep and not know you’ve bought an inflatable sex sheep. Especially when you send your son to school with it. Inflated.

There are so many stages that this inflatable sex sheep purchase must have gone through. Including, but not limited to:

  • The browsing for an inflatable sheep
  • The purchase of an inflatable sheep, including confirming the order. For an inflatable sheep which, in the product description included the phrase “back door fun”.
  • The opening of an inflatable sheep.
  • The looking at the inflatable sheep and wondering why it has a sexy hat on.
  • Inflating the inflatable sheep and not noticing it had a gaping bumhole.

There’s just too many steps in this entire process to lead me to believe that the sex sheep purchasing mother didn’t know what she was doing.

I mean, the cynic in me says that it almost sounds like something someone’s done to get a bit of attention. I mean, you don’t just buy a sex sheep.

Also, if she was all that bothered about the whole thing – as mortified as she claims to be – surely she wouldn’t be allowing the media to be filled with pictures of her son in the Shepherd’s costume she bought online (which came with the sheep, apparently) clutching the sex sheep.

She’s also a fool because she could have got a perfectly good shepherd’s outfit from Sainsbury’s online for £12 and she paid way more than that for a red dressing gown and a tea towel. And associated sex sheep.

If the story is to be believed.

Which it bloody isn’t, is it?

Dropped ’til You’ve Shopped

I think I’m done with shops for 2018.

Today – 17 days before Christmas – was, I think, breaking point.

I went to work and, as I occasionally do, I nipped into Sainsbury’s on the way. I was on the hunt for some orange and pineapple juice which is, currently, scarcer than hen’s teeth. I don’t know if there’s a problem getting the oranges or the pineapples or the bottles or what, but it seems to disappear very quickly at the moment and the shelves were almost bare today.

But I managed it. I snagged a few bottles and headed for the checkout.

To get there I had to pass:-

Some people playing flutes.
Two different groups of Chuggers.
Countless gormless people who were just bewildered by anything they could see.
Children, just ambling along, while their parents are completely oblivious to their locations.

I understand that Christmas is fast approaching but, my God, it was like there was some sort of full-on panic going on. I mean, it is the UK’s last Christmas before Brexit so next year we’ll be dining on wood shavings and weevil legs so maybe everyone is trying to make it a good one but still.

It was the gormless people that most worried me. Who goes to a supermarket with no clue of what they’re buying? Honestly? I mean, come on. Even if you were nipping in on the way home from work to pick up something for your evening meal you’d have a rough idea of what you were looking for – yes, you might change your mind, but you’d be in the ballpark.

There were people today amazed by almost everything.

All accompanied by tuneless flutes and the sound of people shouting “Tombola!” at anyone who walked past.

So that’s it. I’m done with shops. Bollocks to it.

I know Visa is heavily into this support your local high street campaign, but I don’t think they’ve really taken into account how many pains in the arse you have to negotiate on the local high street to support it in the first place.

There are still arseholes on line. Loads of the fuckers. But as long as you don’t read a review or a comments section, you’re generally fine. And if you do, it’s just people feeling the need to tell other people that they wouldn’t buy something. Because that seems to be what people do. In the future, people will look back on the internet and think it was just a giant digital home for people to exercise their sense of entitlement towards any product or service and/or to post ridiculous reasons about why they wouldn’t use said service/product.

But at least there’s no flutes constantly playing.


It’s been a few weeks, now, since my teeth were stolen from my mouth.

Over that time I’ve gone from complete awareness of the fact to tentative probing with my tongue to the stage I am at now. Which is blissfully forgetful of the fact there used to be teeth there. And strangely addicted to the warm salt-water rinse. Which I could probably stop. But don’t want to.

Forgetful is probably the wrong word, but I’m no longer having to be aware of it. I’m not consciously eating on my right side because the left isn’t there anymore. I’m not sure when that happened. When my brain went, “Ah it’ll be fine…” but it’s happened.

So now I have a new sensation.

Which is when food just kind of slides out into my cheek. Like it’s been posted.

Obviously, part of eating is that your tongue moves stuff around. Now I’ve stopped consciously thinking about where I am eating (and the associated tilt of my head to tip food onto my right side by gravity), my tongue moves stuff over to the left for chewing and it keeps on going. It’s the strangest thing. Because even though the gap between gum and cheek isn’t huge – it’s not really anything at all – your tongue isn’t best suited to retrieving things from over there, mid-chew.

I think I have a new eating face. Now it’s not just enjoyment that crosses my features. There’s the look of concentration as I try to retrieve something, and the confusion as I learn what different foods feel like as they slide across my exposed gum.

I think this is why you always see old people making chewing motions – they’re trying to get back some food which has made it out into the gum-cheek zone.

I don’t want to be like that, though.

Not just yet.



Today has conspired against me in almost every way.

I’ve spent a good portion of the day looking in almost everything I can think of for a Christmas bauble which mum brought us back from Krakow in the summer. It’s clear it has been put somewhere very, very safe as I have no idea where the chuff it is. But we need to find it because there’s going to be nothing worse than watching her standing by the tree on Christmas Day, or whenever, looking for it. And not finding it. Because we can’t find it.

There’s a part of me that believes that she still has it and that I said for her to hang onto it until Christmas and to bring it with her to hang on the tree when she gets here. But I might have entirely dreamt that. In which case I really need to up the narrative of my dreams.

I’ve also re-grouted a spot in the bathroom where the existing grout had been coming loose for some time. Which is, of course, a surprise given how smoothly the entire fitting of the bathroom went. Last week, when it was really gusty wind, I believe that something occurred which caused the grout to leave the wall. I don’t know what. It’s the best explanation I have for it just flying out. Other than ghosts, of course.

My grouting, even if I do say so myself, is considerably better than the stuff that’s everywhere else. And I was tempted to pull more of it but then it becomes a case of where do you stop? And before you know it you’ve grouted an entire bathroom when all you wanted to do was fix one small bit.

But while the grouting went smoothly, not everything related to it did.

The tube of grout I used slipped from where I had put it as I was working on the wall.

It fell almost directly onto the toilet brush holder.

Which fell over.

And spilled that horrible water that lurks at the bottom of toilet brush holders all over the mat in front of the toilet.

I mean, come on Universe. Cut me a bit of slack. We have an entirely tiled floor and you knock things onto the only bit of fabric. Bastards.

So then I needed to wash that. But the washer wasn’t finished, but I was really worried about the water staining the mat, or bleaching it presuming there is bleach residue in that water. And then I worried about it just being fricking disgusting. And then the washer still hadn’t finished.

And then the washer did finish. But I needed to go out. So I left late.

And then several people had arguments with the bus driver about bus tickets, the price of bus tickets and the fact that their sixteen year old child shouldn’t have to carry her half fare pass with her all the time because it’s obvious she’s sixteen. Or something.

And then the same mother complained to her friend that Christmas was expensive because she had four kids.

And I just wanted to shout, “You should have kept your bloody legs shut then shouldn’t you!”

But I didn’t.

And all the time one of her children was kicking the back of my bus seat.

And I never did find that bauble.