Nothing (much) To Report

I like my tea, so much so that I recently gave into a tea leaf whimsy and bought a packet of reasonably expensive Tesco’s Finest Assam. Yesterday was the first experience of tea leaves in a loose and free form way since ooooh, years back. Strange I should even want to do this as I hate the little bits that get swished out of tea bags in my cuppa, so removing the perforated teabag from the equation is risking my sanity.

Made the tea with no problems, it’s the second cup I went for the proved too much for my little under-used brain. 1. Pour skimmed milk in to the bottom of my very tall, and favourite, mug. 2. Place tea strainer on top of mug. 3. Lift bright lime green teapot and pour out tea. Except it looked more like dark brown diarrhoea which isn’t so nice to drink. 4. Realise that no more tea is going to gained from this pot, lift lid to see plenty of the dreaded bits. 5. Put lid down walk over to bin to tap away tea remains from the little sieve and the pot. 6. Walk to sink to swill out the pot ready for next time. 7. Walk back to kettle to retrieve lid…. no lid in sight. I check the sink, the draining board, the counter top, behind, in front and beside the kettle, no lid. So I look around me in case I put it down some place else whilst I wasn’t thinking about it: I check the kitchen island, the fridge, the cutlery draw, the microwave, the bin - several times, a tad unpleasant job, the sink again, in the kettle, around the kettle again, in various boxes of teabags (I said I like my tea), in cupboards, in the sugar pot. I start to think I’m going mad and that it’s actually right in front of me but for some unfathomable reason my brain isn’t registering it. I seek the assistance of my father, who’s loitering around the house at present. He can’t see a little bright lime green teapot lid either, and proceeds to check all the places I just have and a few more that I haven’t, just in case. The conclusion is that the resident evil mouse has had away with it. It’s decided that it liked the look of it and is now wearing it as a sombrero. It’s a tough little thing, it’s chewed its way through too much of my bedroom carpet, the wee bastard.

I resolve to solve the riddle by retracing my steps, because the idea that a tiny mouse with rather sharp teeth could have somehow dashed in and out to fetch my teapot lid is ridiculous. I actively walked out all that I did before I realised that the thing had disappeared from my vision as opposed to just thinking about my actions. Still no sign of it, and I realise I don’t actually have any memory of where I put it down, just that it was in my hand one moment and not the next. It’s as though my brain has completely wiped that nanosecond from the memory banks. I have a memory of the lid, but not the item itself and no memory of what I did with it. The thieving mouse option looks a little more possible.

I give up, and reckon it’ll appear when I stop thinking about it, as often happens. But… the sudden thought occurs to me that perhaps, perhaps it dropped off the counter and landed on the floor. But as I can’t see it down there it must have gone under one the units. On to the hands and knees and there it is, almost glowing in the gloom, my little lid. The joy of being reunited with it was close upon real happiness. Christ, I’m sad.

If like the rest of the British public, you decided to head to the coast for the bank holiday - a jolly big woo yay to you!

I went down to Cornwall and had a very smashing time. I saw that woman who presents daytime TV show “This Morning” in a fudge shop in Padstow. I am reliably informed that her name is actually Fern Britton. It was very reassuring to see that she had no make up on, greasy hair and looked - well, just like most ordinary people do on a Sunday morning! Whale said I should have taken a picture and sent it into Hello (whale edit: heat, actually ducks) magazine. Damnit.

I also had to take a picture of this:

It’s a boot dog and adorns a shop in Padstow. I want one!

I did also go to Newquay during the holiday, but the sheer presence of hen & stag night parties in the town made me want to run away very quickly. I did manage to go swimming…well, if you call being chucked about by the waves swimming - then that’s what I did. I also found out that I have bought possibly *the* most useless bikini and flashed my tits to most of the beach (well, I expect they were used to it with all the hen nights). But I am most annoyed, as all the shops have now stopped selling them and I am going on holiday in October. *sniff*.

Well, the title says it all really.

I have to admit to having taken home not just 1, but 2 guys with the aforementioned condition. Both were *ahem* known to me quite well. I am still mates with 1 of them…

Bloke number one. Lets call him Gareth, which may or may not be his real name

We were having a lovely evening out with all our colleagues drinking lots of interestingly coloured drinks, all pretty much involving vodka. I forget what we were actually celebrating, but back then the IT department didn’t need an excuse to go out on the lash.

The end of the night comes, and we share a taxi back as we live kinda close by. I *may* have invited him to come back for more drinking. Somewhere between come back to mine for more vodka and my house we ended up snogging. Fair enough I think. Not mixing work and pleasure seems a silly reason not to hook up with someone (and what with my track record…)

Now, I lived in the top floor flat at the time with access out onto the roof. And this was becoming one of those times when it was worth clambering all over the table to get out there. Thankfully it was summer, so we could easily “lose” some clothes out there as things were hotting up…only to be rather rapidly cooled down again when it became clear even fallatio wasn’t going to resurrect this guy’s sleeping member.

May I just mention to guys reading this: this awkward silence in proceedings is where you politely leave. I consider it a faux pas to then want to pass out in my bed. You will most definately be in my way for when I get a more reliable cock in to finish the job - i.e. my trusty vibrator.

In Gareth’s defence, he was rather good at going down (if a little dribbly) but I’m just one of those girls who like a bit of good, hard shagging.

And of course, no, I didn’t learn my lesson. For my sins, I took another drunken guy home only to have my hopes of a night of passion dashed again! This was a couple of years ago, and I’d like to say that I am older and wiser and wont fall for the droopy-dicked guy again…Whale will of course say otherwise after another of our drunken nights out clubbing of all things! Gaaaah! (but that’s another post, isn’t it Svetlana?)

-moosh

She was only 51 when it happened. Her own mother died form a brain haemorrhage aged a mere 43 when she herself was only 13. This kind of information makes you realise things don’t bode well for yourself, but then they were/are both heavy smokers, and I do have that in my favour being that I hate the little sticks of death, barring the very occasional fag whilst very drunk.

I was sat in the kitchen, doing something or nothing, when both my parents came into the room and dad helped mum put on her jacket. I didn’t register this as being odd, and just asked where they where going. “To the doctors”, I was told. “Why?” “Because your mum’s right hand has gone numb.” Then I noticed that she wasn’t able to move it. I thought it was a bit strange, but nothing serious to fret about. When they returned from the doctors things started to seem a little more worrisome. “What’s happening?” I asked dad as he was throwing a nightie and wash bag into a overnight bag, “She’s got to go to the hospital, the doc has told us to go straight there.” I as a still naive 21 year-old didn’t genuinely think something bad was happening around me, it was something quite simple and that the doctors and nurses would be able to fix in no time; she’d be back home in a few days and life would return to normal. Normal these days is something quite different.

The roles between mother and daughter had completely changed. I’ve frequently commented to her, dad and others that it’s like I’m looking after a giant three year old. No, she doesn’t wear nappies, but we do have two over-sized potties (commodes) that I regularly have to empty; I prepare all her meals and drinks - she was once able to make and fetch her own cups of tea, a slightly drawn out process but it was a little thing she could still do for herself but a couple of bad falls out of bed which resulted in broken bones and lengthy return stays in hospital have knocked her confidence and physical ability to do that any more. Nowadays the cups of tea are nearly always half drunk before they are left to go too cold to drink any more and a fresh supply is required. This means lots of return trips to the kettle for me.

I help her wash and dress; I supply the 20+ pills she has to take daily, and being an ex-nurse and having a far superior knowledge to any doctor, she regularly self-medicates as she sees fit, which causes cross words to be shared; I fetch newspapers, cardigans, tissues, the tape player and audio books that she seems to enjoy; I nag her, I berate her, I make her laugh, I make her angry, I make her sad. I make the cable box work again when it freezes; I turn the central heating and fans on and off when she’s either too cold or too hot; I pick up dropped lighters, fag packets, forks, tissues, pills, remote controls. I supply toilet paper and wipe her arse. I’ll strip bedding, as required, and wash laundry, although I will not iron – that’s a wee job for dad to do whilst the omnibus of Eastenders is on. I answer the phone in her name, as she hasn’t spoken on the telephone since the stroke and it’s far easier to just say, “Yes, I’m Mrs ******” than to explain to a stranger the situation. We fight, we argue, we get fed up with each other, we sing strange little ditties and songs that we both can’t remember where are from. I tell her about the things I read on various blogs (see right) and the emails people have sent. I’ll spend ages being frustrated at her and with her as she tries to explain with her severely restricted vocabulary what she wants or wants doing. I’ll be annoyed when strangers come in and talk to her as if she’s a little old lady who’s slightly demented or deaf.

So, the next person I tell when asked what I do, and I respond with “I’m a carer, to my mum. She suffered a massive stroke, almost 6 years ago, aged 51 which left her paralysed down her right side and her speech and language buggered.” Says: “Oh, how rewarding/good for you.” I’ll probably spit at them: “No it’s not. It’s annoying, frustrating, depressing, for both of us. And I’m quite bitter!”

I’ll explain in part two, or three!

A few more recent SETs, or Search Engine Terms:

• how many times do whale poo a day - who would want to know that?!
• what’s a tit wank - you need to ask?!?
• places to wank in maidstone - why????
• walked in on him wanking my tit - wtf? I mean, how exactly does that work?? Umm, on second thoughts, I don’t want to know
• dream interpretation poo - dreaming about shit, or seeking similar views about the dream interpretation business?
• i just wanted a shot of my wee game - o-k
• tit wank cardiff - well, why not?
• how to report someone who just wants an - I’m intrigued now, what is it?
• how much are my shares worth for telewes - not a clue.
• ask moosh - what do you want to ask her?
• What can we do in Bruges - Well…….
• can i park at dunkerque ferry port overn - I wouldn’t even bother, if I were you
  
• formaldehyde very destructive of mucous - if you say so, not that I want to know that
• something to spray on bed “bird mites” - clearly, I’m no the only one to have suffered the near madness of these fuckers!

But still STWing, and slight variations of, is coming (excuse the pun) out tops, 557 views so far, for something that is mentioned in passing and with no graphic description or pictures. Actually, I’m reliably informed, by Moosh, that there are no pictures of said STWing to be found on t’internet. None she’s discovered anyway. So, we may have to rectify that, if enough peeps put in a request for an image of a Soapy Tit Wank, of course.