I'm glad he won. It was a close-run thing between him and the twins, I guess. And Liam was a good third place. Any of those would have sufficed.
I'm not quite sure what else to say... I didn't immerse myself in BB this year as much as I have on previous occasions, but yet (despite myself) I felt that the last six were nice people. Somehow, the really annoying ones didn't sneak beneath the radar. Hmmm.
I wonder whether Bri will indeed spend all his money at Lakeside shopping centre, as he has indicated may be the case... I hope he gives the cash to his mum for safekeeping. It would be a shame if the entire £100,000 was spent on Converse All Stars and Abercrombie & Fitch gear.
So, this was not a year of emotion, as when Nadia won, or yawns (when Cameron/Anthony/Kate Lawler won). But it was an OK year. And, I suppose, that's OK. OK?
First, I dreamed last night (in detail) that the dressings had fallen off the area where they cut the mad cyst thing away. Luckily, it's all still intact. I have managed to shower without wetting the dressing, but sorting my hair out will be another matter. I shall, therefore, use the situation as an opportunity to freshen up my hair colour (and craftily incorporate a hair wash) later at the hairdresser's.
Second, I have just had breakfast for lunch: a perfectly boiled egg and a buttery, toasted muffin. Tasty. I have a selection of things for pudding. Lots of fudge, bananas, biscuits, toffee, Kendal mint cake, rice pudding, a Caramac and an apple. It's virtually a Mallory Towers tuck box.
Third... it's the eighth BB final this evening. Will you be joining me to celebrate the making of the next nonentities? Get the popcorn ready...
There can't be many things worse than the sound of hearing your own skin and flesh being cut through.
I didn't expect an actual operating theatre, complete with a team of people, a big light above and the stuff you see on Casualty. And I didn't expect to be covered with a sheet, with just the bit that was to be cut exposed. The only other time I've been in an operating theatre was when I was five and had cut my head open when I fell over. I recall only that I wailed.
The anaesthetic injection felt cold and sharp as the contents of the syringe seeped into the skin and muscles of my armpit. Then, I felt tweaks and prods, and thought, "Ah, it's done", only to hear: "Knife please." Then, snip, snip, snip, snip, snip. Like a pair of scissors cutting through a raw chicken breast. Why did he have to say 'knife'?!
The registrar commented on how the bump went deeper than he thought it would have and eventually (after much snipping) showed me the thing he'd removed. It was half the length of a finger, smaller in girth, but not what I'd expected. I thought he'd produce something resembling a petit pois. He explained certain things to the two students who stood by. They were young enough to be my sons.
It was nearly over when Dr Registrar found another small lump nearby, and decided to run the knife across it. However, it wasn't numb and I yelped. So, there was yet another injection, more snipping, and then the blue thread came out to stitch it up as warmth flowed down my side and was mopped up. Two helpings of local meant it didn't hurt for a while but I was shaking afterwards – adrenaline, I suppose – and had to have a cuppa before I left the hospital. In the café sat a woman with a face the shade of a primrose – she looked healthy apart from her skin tone.
Off to get paracetamol (and I must stop typing).
That is what is happening today. Not exactly heart surgery, I know, but I don't like being needled and have never been cut and stitched, as I've never had to have a thingy removed, so am a bit nervous. It's in my armpit, too. Argh. Sensitive.
It's this afternoon. Ooooh.
Yeah, yeah. According to some people, there's 'nothing to do' in Croxteth or London or (reaches for newspaper to get details)... Birmingham, Manchester, Blackpool... This, of course, is why kids get guns and blow each other's heads off. This is why they are – what's the word – alienated. This is why there are gangs and fights, and deaths. It's because they are all living a life of poverty and hardship, and a community centre would make all the difference.
Bollocks. What a load of absolute liberal twuntage. Tell it to the kids who play football, barefoot, in real slums overseas.
How fucking dare certain people in this country – the 'trendy' liberal wankers who think the mere fact that they read the Guardian and automatically diss the Mail makes them right – attribute the cause of murders to young people being alienated by the rest of us? Who are they alienated from? Their parents? Oh, well, that's OK then. That makes sense – there's a solid reason, so let's dish out a 100-hour community sentence for a life taken, shall we?
You tell me why members of my own family who don't have a roof over their heads that never leaks and who have queued for bits of food, and waited patiently, and seen (too many) deaths, but get on with it, and remain human and humane and retain their integrity... you tell me why it is that they – who have nothing – behave with dignity when our 'poor', 'needy', murdering fools value nothing and no one.
People carry out mindless actions because they are mindless. They don't have 'nothing'. They have too much. It's too fucking easy. They value jack shit. So, mired in their self-pity, in a world that proves that 'discipline' is just something they moan to their human rights lawyer about while bringing a case against a teacher, they become devoid of imagination, intellect, gumption, foresight, ambition or love for (or any concept of) their fellow man, and they regress. It's evolution in reverse, doing a handbrake turn en route.
And don't turn round to me, Ms Lilly-Livered, and bleat, 'well, they have never known love etcetera'... People have come out of orphanages and concentration camps and care homes, and all sorts of places far, far worse than the towns mentioned above, and have challenged themselves.
We do not have ghettos in this country. I have been to ghettos and no, we do not have ghettos in this country. We have a welfare state and we run our justice system in a manner that will surely make people laugh at our stupidity in generations to come. I hope.
There are people I know who have suffered in childhood (violence, sexual abuse, parental divorce, bereavement, bullying) who have not sunk into the gutter but instead get on with life. They are deeply decent people. So, don't you dare, Mr and Ms Liberty, pretend that those who cannot be arsed to do something are somehow our victims.
There is an abundance of liberalism that has gone so far up its own arse that it is giving itself a blow job as it peers around the other side.
Excuses. Excuses. Excuses.
This is a world where a Jehovah's Witness who abused many children is walking the streets because the judge said, well, he was a religious man, among other reasons, so it's OK, no need for jail, Mr Pervert. Pardon? So, if you are a religious person, who is surely meant to have a conscience, you can walk around and carry on living the life you lived before, having ruined the lives of so many? Is this really 2007? Are the judges sitting in padded rooms at the Maudsley Mental Hospital?
What use is it to endlessly debate the reasons in the way that Gordon Brown and Jacqui Smith pledge to do? Come on. What? Another promise that we need to look into gun and knife crime? You don't say... Miss Smith has been in tears, talking about Rhys Jones, who was only 11 when a bullet landed in the back of his neck. Do something then. Change the laws of this land – make it law not laughable. If the much-quoted 'breakdown of the family' is what you believe is the cause, then provide the discipline that is by default so utterly lacking. Go on. Look at the judiciary and its rampant idiocy. DO SOMETHING.
The looks on the faces of the friends of poor dead Rhys Jones (pictured) are simply heartbreaking. I couldn't find the picture to post here but if you do see it, you'll know. It's the one where the boy in the middle, in the red shirt, is particularly bereft. He looks down, his eyes are fixed on the flowers laid on the ground for his friend. He has a small teddy in one hand and a small bunch of flowers clutched in the other. These are boys who still shared sweeties.
The boy in red seems so puzzled, he is obviously deeply shocked and upset. He has lost his friend. He has also lost his childhood. Bang, bang. Will he have to also learn that the killer will be sentenced leniently because he came from a broken home/ was abused/ is 'young' or is religious? Well?????
Yes, that is correct. I viewed chocolate.
As I am banned from eating it for the next five weeks (as it contains caffeine, which may keep me awake), I went to the chocolate aisle (just how much
chocolate can there be?!) in Sainsbury's at lunchtime and tortured my senses with the packaging, the curly gold writing, the hardness of the bars, the descriptions of the flavours, the endless array of chunks and hunks and boxes and packets.
Surely, this must be food porn?
Oh, I tasted a unsweetened carob bar a couple of days ago. I've had sweetened carob before and it's vaguely passable. But I made a mistake and picked up the martyr version. Quite frankly, I'd rather eat a hunk of lard slathered on a piece of papier maché. Yuk. Cost flipping two quid and all.
I am regularly wearing boots, a coat, a scarf, a jumper, jeans/trousers, and have switched the heating on to get clothes to dry within six days.
Ridiculous.
I bought a packet of crisps. They cost 80p. Eighty pence!! How can that be????
I remember when crisps were 5p a packet and a Curly Wurly was 7p. Aniseed balls were a halfpenny each and you could buy a can of something fizzy for 10p. OK, I know these sums were a lot of money way back then, but still. Honestly. 80p?!
I have been away (in case, like, I was missed)...
1) I climbed a mountain for the first time. Without stopping. And it was lashing with rain at the top – and all the way down.
2) I learned that I am a darn good shot (70% success using a rifle – a proper rifle) for clay pigeon shooting. I even hit the moving targets on my very first two shots. Proud? Bugger, yes. I was good. Even the shooting man said so.
3) I am not so hot at driving a quad bike (ATV) as it is tricky to manouevre unless thine shoulders are mighty strong. So, I was a passenger instead (v scary but exhilarating).
Details and pictures will follow once life is back to normal, whatever that is...
I'm so, so tired... And today there is a lead weight in my belly. It makes me sink lower, lower, lower...
- The neighbour's comments really hurt me. And I hate that they did.
- I've done loads of DIY in a short space of time. We've worked our arses off.
- Had to work till 1am on Tuesday (I'm supposed to be on holiday).
- I feel sick and my stomach is upset.
- My chest was tight this morning. I was scared.
- I miss Albie (obviously).
- We've had people round viewing the flat already; this is good but I feel horribly unsettled.
- I think I looked like a lemon in kung fu.
It was nice knowing you, little friend.
I have watched Albert washing her silky butterscotch ears, possibly for the last time. Tomorrow, she will in all likelihood, be re-homed. She is such a lovely creature, sweet, and makes me smile when her whiskers brush my ankles as she gives me rabbit kisses.
But she and M no longer get on.
I have been taken by surprise by the sense of loss I feel at the prospect of losing my little pet.
The lump in my throat is choking me.
We painted and cleaned and tidied and polished and decorated all day. The communal bits look gorgeous, and the place looks finished, finally. The valuer is coming over later today. The experience with GFG was the final straw. We had been prevaricating about moving anyway, but I cannot live with anyone else under my roof, knowing there is such animosity and a complete lack of neighbourliness there. I hope a fat, galumphing DJ who plays heavy metal and owns a Rottweiler buys our flat.
I plan to remove the plants from the garden I cultivated (as long as they aren't damaged in the process) and will take away the garden furniture and nice things we have put there, when we eventually move. GFG – despite being a (total) banker – pays for sod all, won't contribute, I imagine, to the paint and soil and plants and time we have expended, so fuck her. And she doesn't want to communicate with us "You can write to me if you think I need to have insurance". So, she can go swivel on a sharp stick.
Yes, I am still very annoyed. Not so much that it is eating at me, but enough that I am in 'no going back territory', even if she apologises (which I doubt very much).
Kung fu was excellent and I slept like a dream. It was shocking to have to get up at seven this morning.
Yes, the neighbour we thought was "such a nice woman" (and in fact had been saying as much earlier in the day – oh, the irony!) is a total, utter piece of shit. A prize cunt and a rude, supercilious little fuckwit.
It's not often in life that I despise people. There is the woman who shafted me workwise at Easter, who earns my derision, and is not off my radar, though she may think she is. And there is Ground Floor Girl, the witch from hell.
I was awake until 1am, spent most of the evening shaking with fury due to what was a neighbourly act by S and myself being thrown back in our faces followed by a barrage of very rude texts. The reason? Well, GFG had gone away for four days, left her large front (ground floor) window wide open, so that all and sundry could see her plasma TV and the expensive contents of her bedroom, and she'd also left her skylight and her back window wide open, too.
So, knowing a) that she was abroad and, b) that if she was burgled, they'd have access to our place, too (and we would not be insured due to it being an open invitation), we did what anyone in their right mind would have done and closed her windows!
I sent her a text to let her know and was met with angry replies that escalated, saying that we should not have gone into her flat (erm, yes, anyone could have gone into your skanky flat, love, and we tried to close the bloody window from the outside but couldn't). It took about a minute.
Then, over the next two hours, she descended into "I will call the police next time" and "You are not my friends" and on and on. There was no, "Thanks for looking out for me, or "Sorry I left the windows to our JOINT house open." She has a law degree and works as a banker, and thinks that that makes her oh-so-clever. But it just makes her into an even bigger moron, frankly. Her ego is huge and her vision of herself is deluded. This is a 28-year-old with the common sense of a nursery school child.
We'd even got rid of the bailiffs earlier in the day, who had left a note to say they were about to break in to recover £22K owed by the twat who developed the flats. And, we have done her plenty of favours. She sat there drinking our wine when she moved in, outstaying her welcome by far too many (boring) hours, she got her solicitor to make us pay for half of the insurance so she could move in, oh, and all sorts of things. We did up the back garden – she does nothing. We tidied up the front garden – she does nothing. We buy things to improve the place – she contributes nothing. And when her Ocado delivery arrived at 11.30pm, she was out and muggins took the stuff inside for the witch. S is forever bringing her organic veggie boxes in from the rain.
It's actually quite sad that someone with (supposedly) a decent brain can be so devoid of any community spirit, niceness or decency. It's so reassuring to know that had we left our windows open, she'd have just left them.
Oh, yes, we could have phoned her. But then what? Wait in nervously, for her to say: "Yes, you may close the windows before I am burgled". Did she expect us to put our lives on hold while she was on holiday to get the nod? Fuck off. What she fails to register is that this is a JOINT property and, actually, if she had called the police they would have said, "Don't leave your fucking property open, you silly cow."
I did call the police, who said that next time, we should leave it and let her take her chances (they also said she was highly irresponsible). Well, I shan't argue with any of that.
After two very hot days that have darkened and burned me, I am relieved that it is raining this morning. It is warm outside but I can breathe more easily. And I will be able to work (despite being on holiday, as much as any freelancer can have a holiday) more easily knowing the day is not glorious.
My arms ache after doing kung fu for an entire day over the weekend in the blazing sunshine. That was extremely tiring. I sat at home yesterday as the sunshine poured into the front room, trying not to fall asleep on the sofa. I nodded off a couple of times with the Eastenders omnibus on in the background – it possibly hastened my sleepiness rather than keeping me alert.
I wish, I wish, I wish that the sleep programme was over so I could have just stretched out and slept. My body so craved it that my head thumped violently all afternoon.
Later on, I met my friend, V, who has the air of Audrey Hepburn about her (her mother is Russian and she has dramatic, dark looks). We walked to a local wine bar, sat outside watching people drift by, and chatted about all sorts of things. It was an easy, gentle way to spend the latter part of the day. V gives the impression of being a perennial joker but offers some crystal clear insights on some quite dark subjects. Sometimes, we say the same things at the same time and laugh at the synchronicity.
My headache intensified as the evening wore on and by the time a very brown S got back home after a day of cricket, I was in quite a bit of pain. He stroked my head, which helped. Getting into bed and lying on fresh linen is a distant memory now. I slept well.
10 minutes later: the sun is out in its loveliness. So much for the rain. Oh well, at least I won't have to water the garden... But how will I ever get down to any work?
Went to bed very late for various reasons. I was physically tired after a day of exercise, so should really have had an early night, slept well, and be feeling brilliant now, but it didn't happen. Had to get up at 7am as per sleep programme. I feel fucking dreadful.
I was meant to be on holiday for two weeks as of Friday just gone, but have to work today, if I can be bothered, thanks to someone who has changed a brief – completely fucking re-wrote it – three times. For fuck's sake. After that, I will hopefully meet my friend, V, or will be on my lonesome on a day that promises to be very hot and sunny (30C). That would be depressing.
I am severely fed-up and the prospect of 'holiday' doesn't really help.
I am so, so busy. Such a busy woman. Ultra busy. Etcetera. Anyway, before I go and feed the neighbour's cat, buy some food for me, clean the rabbits out and *breathe*, I shall reveal some things that have happened. I can only stretch to bullet points, for which some of you will be ever so relieved...
• I have had premonitions of: a) a friend unexpectedly leaving his girlfriend (I was almost accurate to the minute) and, b) the rabbits somehow escaping their confines and fighting (and getting back into their confines, leaving behind bits of each other in the kitchen)... Rather disturbing to come home to, as it had never happened before. They are OK (ish). Well, alive, thank heavens.
• Practically all the women in my train carriage today (homeward-bound) were carrying Topshop bags. It was a veritable black and white polka dot fancy bag party.
• People in London can be lovely. I've had some random hellos this week, and generous gestures from strangers. Maybe it is the effect of the sunshine.
• One good night's sleep this week (after kung fu) left me feeling amazing the next day. Amazing. Utterly, fucking amazing.
• I attract cats like you wouldn't believe. You really would not b
elieve it. Really. It can be somewhat spooky. I am to feed the neighbour's kitten soon. I expect it to be sat there waiting at the door, with a cup of tea in its paw and a plumped-up cushion for me. This here cat (pic) is a lazy crib from Wiki in case you don't know what a cat, erm, looks like.
• I received three candles for my birthday (from different people). Each is rather posh and they are all delicious and lovely. I attract candles as well as cats, it seems. (I did receive other stuff as well but there was no common thread, except the fact that I like those things very much, too)...
• Well, today, I am exhausted as sleep was a bit of a fickle bedmate. And I do not feel fucking amazing. Just fucking shattered.
KF Gallagher ran a 'Get Petty' writing competition recently – you had to start with the first sentence (as below) from the Tom Petty song Listen to Her Heart, and complete it in 500 words or fewer. And, I appear to have won! I am thrilled and grinning like a loon. Entry is at KFG's site and also below:You think you're gonna take her away, with your money and your cocaine. But I’m watching you and I’ll do whatever I have to so you’re no longer able to touch her.I like to think you imagine that I observe you sometimes. Do you do that, Larry? You know how my mind works, the lengths to which I’d go. You know I’m unencumbered by a conscience. Why aren’t you more worried, more watchful?I wouldn’t say I hate you, old friend. I despise you. She was my perfect match, the one unsullied thing I had in my life. You are her polar opposite. You need to walk away. Put away your money, stop taking her out to those places where the cutlery is six-deep. She is no whore; you know where you can get plenty of those.After what we’d all been through, I can’t imagine how you are so stupid that you believe we’re done – that I could be fine with you wrapping yourself and your life around her. Are you marking her body the way you now mark her mind? Are you? I almost crept into the bedroom once, intending to watch from the cupboard to see what sorts of things you did, but the possibilities made me dizzy.Two years may have passed, but with each day you anger me more. When I see you walking down her street, laden with lilies, I hold myself back. I’m gonna have to wait or you’ll get in there first and find some way to keep me away from you. I can’t have that; I’ve worked so hard to find you again, Larry. I’m amazed that you’ve forgotten me. But I am a Scorpio, I never forget. You should have remembered that.She looks happy when she opens her front door – you stand there in a beautiful suit, your pockets full, posing for a moment as she appraises you before you cross the threshold. Her face is slimmer, her pink mouth is as wide as ever and the shadows have fallen from beneath her eyes. She is my she. Her softness and silkiness and those sensual parts of her, they are mine.An old woman laden with bags of potatoes caught me watching you once. Her sparse eyebrows lifted at the sight of me and she shuffled away, her dirty sandals scraping the pavement as she scurried, stumbling and mumbling.It’s bonus day soon. You’ll be so distracted by your wallet, and what it can buy, that you won’t have time to allow yourself to remember the anniversary of when you told me how badly you wanted to screw her. We were off our heads on coke and Cristal. You laughed. I got into my car, blurry with fury.So, here we are. Your hands are relaxed on the steering wheel of your new Jaguar. Your scream, as my hands grip yours, is piercing. The sudden impact brings you instantly to where you can see me.Hello, Larry.
Thanks KFG. I can't quite believe I won but am obviously incredibly happy that I did! *Blush*
I'm glad he won. It was a close-run thing between him and the twins, I guess. And Liam was a good third place. Any of those would have sufficed.
