Hand Soap, at Rose and Radish designed by Marie Gardeski
Lovely!

Uff. Friday was one of those slip-trip-and-suddenly-you’re -really-drunk sort of nights.
I’ve not really been doing much of anything for a while now.  We all seem to be a very sorry combination of being hellishly busy and stony broke.  And considering just how many people I knew and sort-of knew at the pub, I reckon we all reached the tipping point at the same time.

 It was a night of losing friends, finding others and adopting strangers, all the while jabbering and interrupting one another in that slack jawed, wet-lipped manner. The place resembled a sea of bewildered tribal masks all nodding and interested in each other’s bullshit; raised eyebrows and shining O-shaped mouths weren’t the sign of genuine interest but rather a bar-wide attempt at keeping our eyes open and brains “on”. It was wonderful.

I’m no good at drinking. I reach the end all too fast and have to put myself to bed. However, I can say that if you’re going to do it, being off Facebook really makes it more enjoyable. I awoke with only a handful of embarrassing memories, as opposed to logging on to find a thousand embarrassing photos.

Since there’s no evidence of a blind-pissed Billy-No-Mates sitting next to the burger van in her “I’M A PEPPER” t-shirt, it may well have not happened!

However, it did happen and I feel it’s only fair to say that Trish does the best pigeon-meat on a burger bun I’ve ever sampled. She also says there’s a pub in Wallsend where “they just put lines of coke out in the toilets” for you to enjoy for free.

She’s told me this three times, but I can never remember the name of the place. It hardly matters. She could just as well have told me to eat shit since I always cheerily bellow through a mouth of false-food “Ah, I will do!” but instead crawl home with yellow sauce on my cheek and most probably, my skirt tucked into my knickers.

In other news, this is a tattoo a sober person decided to get:

I see tattoos in the same way I do childbirth: great, if you can handle the pain.

I’m loving the photos and am really impressed with the colour. Thanks to Miss CS for showing me!

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Happy Birthday, Lyndall-O

Eat cake and be squashy.

Last year was all about saving up for a two week holiday far far away. I scuttled off the the hills for Christmas and came home shortly after New Year.

I had lots of fun and caught a vomit-bug. That bit wasn’t fun, but I enjoyed being in meal-debt and have been hurriedly stuffing lots of food-shaped things down my throat.

Stan had to go to Mother Brown’s house so as to not get hungry, lonely and moody while we were away. His absence means I can’t get down to any real work. I had my first day back at painting, resuming my two-days-a-week-on-Tuesdays-and-Thursdays and I couldn’t think straight. The house minus one angry spotty fluff-person is a boring hole. 

I found myself getting irritable about things that have never bothered me before. For example, my sock and knicker drawer disorder had me refusing to unpack my bulging suitcase because I couldn’t bring myself to further aggravate the situation. I thought this was something you only suffered with if you couldn’t, or refused to get laid. And while having an Ideal Brown means I’m sorted with sex, it doesn’t mean I can continue to disregard my sock hell.

 If I had my cat, all would be well.

So we’re going to the Lakes to fetch him this weekend. I can hardly wait to see his dirty scowling teddy face. 

Also, I love Lyndall.

She bought me a book illustrated by Richard Scarry. I love it and she loves it, but nobody else does. If I kept company with some three year olds, I think I could find some understanding.

It’s called “I am a Bunny” and it’s beautiful.