Right then Wednesday…
I am delighted to announce that ceiling vag is no longer dripping ; she has now had her leak fixed. She has been dry for approximately 4 hours which means Christiaan can stop panicking that the house is going to fall in, and I can stand in the kitchen without the dripping noise making me want to hurt someone. Turns out a nail had been puncturing a pipe for many many years but it had only begun leaking when the bastard thing gave up and started rusting leaving a wee hole and a pissy ceiling. No staying power have nails.
The plumbers have been here all day actually, because as well as getting ceiling vag dry they’ve been installing our new combi boiler, meaning we wont have to wait 40 minutes for the hot water tap to run hot, and we may have more than a streak of piss as water pressure. It’s a revelation. I’ve mentioned before that the plumbing in this house borders on mayhem so they’ve had their work cut out for them but I can confirm that we are now “cooking with gas” again, which is a relief because it took me 5 minutes of trying to ignite the hob earlier to remember that the bastarding stuff was switched off. I was genuinely perplexed but was thanking my lucky stars thinking “well if it had to break I guess the time to do it was when there were two plumbers here…. ah wait a minute” – frightening to think I’m raising a child really when I struggle with the basics.
As a result of the banging, clattering, shitey music blaring from an ad ridden radio station, the permanently open doors and loft hatch I’ve had to hide myself away in the living room with the two furry arseholes. I tell you what, I’d take a day with Eli all day every day after being trapped a room with these two absolute eejits. Bonnie’s been like a budget version of David Blaine disappearing then appearing all of a sudden with one leg trapped in a wire behind the telly unit. In four years she’s never once been that arsed about what lives behind there, but I’ve had to fish her out of there 4 times now and each time I do she sneezes and gives me the dead eye. She’s got some fucking nerve judging me for not dusting behind the telly when I’ve watched her on many occasions wipe her arse on the hall carpet. Tiny furry judgemental fucking freeloader. Everyone’s a fucking critic.
When she’d had enough of doing that she’s crying, digging at the door or trying to head butt it open – she’d managed to escape twice when I’ve opened the door to leave the room but she only ran as far as the bathroom, she’s not even got the sense to run into the kitchen where the tasty stuff is. Why she was so desperate to get out is beyond me – contrary the song she was singing, she does not have important shit to do. She’s just not that bright and last time she got out when the loft was open she ended up getting trapped in the roof space for hour because we hadn’t realised she’d run in. When Christiaan realised and went to fetch her she was pissed off, REALLY pissed off, but I’d bet you my last fiver that’s where she’d end up if I’d opened that fucking door. So there’s her, trying to make a break for it and then Bear, the big furry baby who was freaking the fuck out. You could see his brain ticking: ” there’s strange men in my house… Whats that banging? OH FUCK ME WHAT IS THAT? Oh look… a ball. I’m going for a nibble of biscuit” He spent the first hour the plumbers were in cuddled up beside me pawing me until I tickled his belly and let him rest his paw on me. He’s a beautifully stupid creature, they both are but fuck me their food stinks and being stuck in a room with their crapper, their food, a heater and no circulation wasn’t making me feel clean. It could have been worse though, Christiaans exact words 7 minutes after we’d let them back out were “Bears shat a twix”, literally two solid fingers of turd. I’m grateful he held it in to be honest.
Thankfully Eli was at nursery so at the very least I didn’t have him to try and entertain in only one room too – it would have been carnage. He skipped off quite merrily this morning which I was pleased with because he had another odd night crying back and forward; I’ve no idea what’s going on with him and he’s not helpful when you ask him. You tend to get some sort of drunk chat like “Giraffes go honka honka and there’s a blackbird Mummy” – there’s no point. I chucked some Calpol down his neck just in case this morning though and half an hour later he was grand, he wasn’t that arsed about breakfast again though. I don’t know why I let it bother me; I often skip breakfast or have something small like a yoghurt but it just doesn’t seem right that anyone else, especially my wee boy does the same. I’d be much happier if he had something wholesome and heavy in his stomach – I think this means I’m a proper Mum. Joy.
So anyway Christiaan took him off to nursery, I pottered about getting ready for the plumbers coming and grabbed some breakfast. I could have killed for a big filthy breakfast roll this morning (haggis and square sausage with brown sauce… ooft) but I could almost hear my arteries weeping with despair so I reached for the melon and had an utterly fucking miserable time with it. I could have been doing with fucking it off today and getting hammered into all that chocolate we have left over from Easter, or the crisps that are hanging around. I don’t get like this too often but when I do, I just want ALL OF THE THINGS. My appetite is wank though, I’d be lucky if I could manage a quarter of what I had my heart set on and then I just get pissed off I’ve left three quarters of a job undone. Christiaan had asked if I fancied anything from the shop on the way back and I’d dutifully and loyally to fat club said no but he still brought me summit…. another bunch of flower (or fwallers as Eli calls them) to brighten the house while I’m off. I’m getting a bunch every Tuesday apparently ❤ I know, I KNOW, he’s a keeper. I tell him often.
I’ve had a right quiet day which was what I needed I guess – no Eli, no work, no fucker to talk to bar the furry idiot brigade but I just couldn’t settle. I did manage to get out for 14 minutes earlier though. I had wanted to walk to the post office which is at the top of our road, hand in our donation for the kids gala, and then go for a mooch to the gift shop in the high street but I reckon I had more chance of Bruce Forsyth calling in for a bite to eat – I’d not be walking anywhere today. My legs are goosed, heavy with tiredness and sore with bone pain so my wee walk got shelved in favour of driving where I wanted to go – even then I didn’t last too long before I was back home again. Back in my cave of cat piss and meaty smells; I have a very real vision of what old age looks like for me, except there’ll likely be more cats, less washing and I am NOT holding back on eating shite.
I’ve “rested” though, as in I’ve physically done very little; I’ve slobbed on the couch dreaming of dry roasted peanuts and only got up to get myself something to eat.. which wasn’t dry roasted peanuts. I’ve also watched some telly but day time telly really is fucking awful. I have no idea why it needs to be so bad – surely people don’t watch this utter horseshit? Doctors? What the fuck? It’s just nonsense. In saying that I do enjoy the first couple of hours on the BBC with Heir Hunters and Homes Under the Hammer so maybe I could adapt to the lazy bastard lifestyle? I’d LOVE if someone knocked at our door and told me that great cousin Cedrick died and his pet donkeys aren’t entitled to his estate so here, have 40k. Ya dancer Cedrick, I surely will my man!
One thing I can’t seem to escape on telly, or online, though is Kate Middleton and her pristine self. Yet again the media are sensationalising something which doesn’t need any more than an admirable nod from the other side of the road. In other countries women give birth and are back at work hours later; they’ve no choice. So although I admire her for being up and about and looking all shiny – it shouldn’t be news. She’s clearly got ways and means of making herself look fucking fantastic after child birth and a lot of people are slating her for that, which I don’t really understand. Smacks of a bit of jealousy to be fair, the main point is she felt she had to have those pictures taken at all. As a mum who has just gone through labour she was not granted the same privacy we all would be – that I’d have been gutted not to have actually. I don’t understand the hoo ha, but I’d still shake her hand for having the balls to stand there and smile while a pool of leeches took pictures of her and went off to decide whether they were going to rip her to shreds or applaud her. Hours after Eli’s birth I was too busy nose diving cake and wondering whether my boobs had got the memo about their new role in dairy manufacturing to have been arsed getting dolled up for some pics. In fact I couldn’t even fart with confidence that soon after Eli was born if I remember rightly; and I didn’t even have to push him out the front door – he was a delivered by section through the sun roof. Fair play to her and shame on the press and the vultures who are swarming all over it.
Yes I know she chose the lifestyle – but that doesn’t make someone fair game to the sort of scrutiny she’s getting. I chose mine too but I’d also rip you a new arsehole for calling me out hours after giving birth when I was doing my very best to ignore the hormones, leaky tits and pain.
I don’t really get the fascination with the Royal family. I mean don’t hate them, I just… well I guess I just nothing them. They exist, we exist, some of them do good stuff sometimes, some of us also do good stuff sometimes, some of them cost us a fucktonne of money by living extravagantly, some of us cost the NHS and the economy a fucktonne of money because we can’t eat, drink or live within our means; it’s swings and roundabouts. They’re people with a different set of opportunities and wealth and I’m just not that arsed about making a big thing of their historical status – its bullshit. I wouldn’t want the attention they attract for all the chocolate in Cadbury’s: I think it’s sad that she felt she had to have that picture taken so that society can hold her up to the light and see if she’s good enough; I’ve read some positive and some brutal reactions to those pictures but I don’t get why it matters so much? It feels to me that it’s hugely reflective of a landscape built of entitlement – we SHOULD have the right to judge her because we PAY for her. Fuck off. Employers don’t get away with that camel wank and neither should you. Wind your neck in.
See, that’s what being stuck in with day time telly does to me. I really REALLY need to get back to fucking work. I’m arguing with MYSELF on a computer screen.
So today’s synopsis
- A very quiet easy day
- I got out for a bit
- Ceiling Vag is no longer a drippy fucker
- We have a new boiler ❤
- I’ve been trapped with the idiot brigade for company all day
- I couldn’t walk for very long today and feel a bit feeble and shite about it all
- I just went on a rant about the Royal Family when I’ve also said I care not a fuck about them. I’m too conflicted now.
- What’s on the menu Mellars – well contrary to my desires I HAVE stuck to plan so it was
- Melon and yoghurt for breakfast
- Left over sausage casserole with some pasta for lunch
- Slow cooked beef chilli for dinner
I’m off to shout out the window at random people and see if I can’t expel some of this aggression.