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Sunday, 1 October 2017

In which One is back from the dead...

That actually is me scavenging for food...

What the ....

NO, Dear Reader, I haven't shuffled from this mortal coil.  Not for the want of trying though...

'What did you do that for?' enquired the locum when a dishevelled One fronted up after consuming an entire month's worth of meds.

'What the feck do you think?' thinks I.

No matter, the human spirit prevails and having resigned Oneself to a life of bleak penury, One shall, now being sixty, throw Oneself on the mercy of social services...

The perfect beauty of mind-numbing drugs is that memories are scant and for the life of me I can't remember why I was in the doldrums, well, apart from working all my life for feck all, having a shite credit rating and not being able to rent even the most humble of shelters etc...  

Don't feel remotely sorry for self though, 'tis what 'tis.

                                                                                         ~

'Go in front of me if you just want fags,' said the blighter who loaded the gun, passed it to the evil bint and fecked off...

I waited.

GO IN FRONT OF ME...

He's fortunate I didn't jump on his face until he was unrecognisable.  ( I know what I mean )

Anyway...

The weather outside is frightful,
but the motorhome's delightful
There's only one place to go
Sorrento Sorrento Sorrento 

Plan to do a Thelma and Louise...

Friday, 7 July 2017

In which it's a sick joke...

Wish I was one of them 'donkeys with sore feet' off the telly who everyone sends three quid to instead of just a solitary beast of burden, see above...

Slumped on the second hand sofa at the mo, wishing I could afford enough vodka and fags to 'bad habit' meself into oblivion, and, just realised it's been a whole month since I've vented me spleen in this manner.

Am absolutely shagged, and look it! Am now looking after the old, sick and needy who aren't as old etc etc as poor me! Me lovely long eyelashes have all fallen out. Stress, I shouldn't wonder. Anyway even if they hadn't, wouldn't be able to bung on any mascara as now have 'Cooper Eye' a family trait where puffy, droopy eyelids develop making me look even more porcine than before.

Saw a picture in the paper the other day of two carers asleep in a dementia home. They've been suspended. Yes, I know it shouldn't happen, but I wonder if any of their detractors have ever worked a twelve and a half hour shift in a boiling hot, urine scented home being pinched, slapped and screamed at, with just two five minute breaks.

Incessant, shrill alarms sound all day and all night calling hoards of eastern European and elderly unskilled drones like me to tend to our Queens.

Tending to the world of 'learning difficulties' was a whole different kettle of fish: there's a faint glimmer of improvement sometimes. The world of Dementia is whole other nightmare.

Farming the demented is big business and set to get bigger. Company owners growing fat on the backs of minimum wage drones and the misery of skeletal, twisted bodies housing dying brains, being kept ticking by medical advances.

'We're all living longer' trumpet the pioneers. Maybe so, but there's a whole hidden generation who are merely existing.

It's desperately sad, and quite frankly, sick in the extreme.

Saturday, 10 June 2017

In which its a cruel world...

Am plagued by dreams of homelessness night after night...

Quite often returning to the first flat I bought and lived in for a year, before embarking upon my endless moves and odd, unsatisfying couplings.

I was the first woman in my family to have reached the lofty heights of owning my own home and now I'm losing it.

'Most men would be intimidated by you,' someone once said to me. I imagine that was a size related remark and it's got me thinking.

I've never met a chap who didn't think he was attractive. Even the most unappealing of coves feels at liberty to make derogatory remarks about women's looks. Size being a favourite topic.

'I thought I was big until I saw you,' said one unpleasant old item who was old enough to know better, when I first came to live here.

One suitor once said he'd only taken up with me because he'd got a bit fat so had to consider less than perfect partnerage.

Blimey, I'm certainly one of life's consolation prizes!

Not that I care, Dear Reader, I couldn't give a feck.

It's just quite interesting to recall it all and write it down to give myself something to read when I'm on my lonely park bench.

I don't feel sorry for myself though. It is what it is and I am what I am.

And what I am is the culmination of poor choices and a lifetime of the wrong road taken. Still, I've never been deliberately unkind to man or beast, so I'll hang up the hair shirt, paint me face on and biff up the shops for a paper to read about better men than me who've had their lives brought to an abrupt end by the evil of others.

We're all going to he'll in a hand cart.

Sunday, 4 June 2017

In which it's back to work for me...

Back to work re-energized by 20hrs kip per day for a week. That can't be right, can it, Dear Reader? Even for a personage as ancient as me.

The past two day's sleep have been punctuated by dashes to the bog for projectile vomiting excursions.  The kind I thought were the preserve of the very young, but no. Was seduced by a marked down pizza for tea the other night and got food poisoning.

On the plus side, uniform trouserage did up a bit more easily this morning, so, every cloud and all that...

Should be extra lovely in SOP House today with the windows closed against the inclement weather.

Oh well, seems I was destined to clear up after the sick and needy. Could have done with a carer of my own lately though.

Never mind, shall biff off and cheer somebody up today. Plaster pin a false smile and get on with it.

The world has gone quite mad and taken me with it.

Saturday, 3 June 2017

In which am miserable all the time...

It was National Fish and Chip Day yesterday...

In The Underground Lair it was National Fish Finger (singular) and Low Fat (cheapest from the Co op) Chip Day.

Back to work on Monday. Have wasted the whole week sleeping and, when awake, worrying.

Really do need to get some purpose in life before it's too late...

Perhaps should get a hobby/pet/religion...

Or should concentrate on growing even fatter and sell self to travelling circus. Would make lovely spectacle in side show tent, what with rippling thighs, gargantuan upper arms, comedy stomach and post menopausal super-floo-us beard.

Or...

Could devote self to stray cats.  No. Can't afford the Kit-e-Kat.

Perhaps religion then.  Not awfully keen on Christianity though.  Maybe try that lot who wear the long orange robes and biff about singing Hare Krishna. Will ultimately need a religion that encourages the wearing of body obliterating clothing. 

No. Not quite bonkers enough for that yet...

That leaves a hobby...

Might try painting...

Oh no, that's me other job...

It's no good, am just utter misery guts with no purpose in life...

Shall just continue to tend to the sick and needy until I need to get a room.

Thursday, 1 June 2017

In which am obsessed...

That's me, that is, Dear Reader, looking over the garden wall to see if the grass is greener on the other side...

I expect it is...

Have now got fourteen weeks exactly until become sixty.  Have resolved to live a Pinot and fag free existence at least until then.

Sitting alone on the second hand sofa quaffing Pinot of an evening isn't doing it for me anymore.  Granted, working in care does rather render one a drink swilling, fag smoking sort, just as a means of survival from day to ghastly day, but, before it's too late, change must come.

Have been on hols, at home, this week, but am just lolling around kipping me life away.

I just can't come to terms with Buttgate. I wish I could, but it's all so unjust, what with the water still dripping down the back wall. AND. Have just been informed that my nemesis actually owns the flat that it's dripping from.

There she sits using our money for her own personal vendettas and there's not a thing I can do about it.

Get over it. Get a life. Or get even some other way.

Wednesday, 31 May 2017

In which I don't know what's going on...

Being a bit of a TV snob, BBC4 isn't on in the morning, and I can't possibly watch those puerile eejits on Breakfast TV, One tuned the telly in to Radio 4, to be greeted by Thought for the fecking Day...

Is there really still a place for the inane babble of some religious type spouting their dictatorial nonsense? No. There is not.

Some Christian twonk droning on about the use of social media and somehow bringing in a linkage with The Prodigal Son.

It wouldn't be quite so bad if the eejit had been making it up as he went along, but no, he was clearly reading from a script and he couldn't even get that right.

Still, I suppose we should be grateful that it was a purveyor of our supposed national religion, rather than one of the imported ones that we openly now tolerate. Having no supernatural beliefs and mistrusting of those who have, I lit a fag and biffed off into the garden with Chester, the visiting cat.

When the religious sort had sheared, the news item that followed was the shocking revelation that British pensioners living in Europe might not get free health care when we've Brexitted.

Being one of the unlucky ones with no provision for retirement, very likely due to die in the saddle, my varicose veins are highly unlikely to be retiring to the sun, so frankly I don't give a kipper's dick.

Selfish? Don't care! Am putting myself first for a change.

                                      ~

Apparently there's a perch for your falcon in the new Bentley...

Oh fer fecks sake! I've lived too long. I don't know what's going on any more.