Tag Archives: 30’s

Day fourteen: ‘Cracking job Scribbler’

The flurry of snow didn’t quite cause the tizzy I had hoped for.  That tizzy being a day off work.  Instead the staff-room was the usual draining affair, menopause and diets (spat through biscuits) and gossip over who may be the female phantom 2pm pooer. I do most of the draining I am sure, the miserable bastard who doesn’t like hearing about labour pains or massive poos whilst he eats his sandwich…call me touchy!  The rest of the day involved a meeting in which, quite frankly, I wasn’t in, but I was, but wasn’t at the same time, it passed me by like a Big Issue Seller.  The remainder of the day consisted of talks about our moral compass: mine is pointing North West due to the Big Issue seller.

pg-28-wallace-and-grom-paI avoid the changing rooms these days, you only pick up influenza, athletes foot and a sight for sore eyes from Talc-Tackle-Ted & his scrotal spectacle…enough to scare you stiff. On editing that is a poor word choice. I’m talking of the gym, from whence I have come, which was done after my boring day and beans on toast.  Wallace & Gromit: The Wrong Trousers was on the gym television, a source of enormous motivation to all. Call me a Doubting Thomas, but that on its own is hardly a surge of adrenaline but the fact it had subtitles several seconds behind the plasticine animation hardly made me row quicker.  The Roly-Polys enjoyed it as they sat on the bikes, made a screening of it in fact, sausage roll crumbs and cheese & onion fingers washed down with an energy drink.  The peddles were glad of the rest I am sure.  I suppose they are easing themselves in, and I am sure they had to do that on entrance: greased the door frame and went in with the second class post and a good kick.

This moaning is all part of my crisis by the way: it defects from the arthritic pains and growing weakness that is catching me.  It creeps up on you like the hair on your bum, which as we know is tugged from your scalp.  In a sick turn of events I am booking myself back for a Tabata session, perhaps I didn’t make it clear to them first time I am actually this fragile.  I wonder, if I ask nicely, do you think they will put Wallace & Gromit on?

You have called me Touchy and a Doubting Thomas today, stop it.

I am the Scribbler.

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Day twelve: bad timing

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Two pints. Oh I am weak. Not even twelve days into January and water disguised as beer has parted my lips and walked on my tongue: bless me bloggers for I have sinned. I have many meagre excuses and stories of why, some involving Albino Hamster, some involving cat, mostly involving lack of will power and a hot & sour soup…all of which I am looking forward to sharing. My arms still ache due to Wednesdays Tabata, my eyes ache from writing to strangers, my ears ache from Ol’milky red eyes in its wheel. It appears to have gotten louder, the wheel that is, spinning out of control (like the tabloids chasing a celebrity pervert) it picks up momentum and only shows signs of gathering more pace….a noisy guest if ever I have had one.
…A question, whom or who or what/when/why was the noisiest guest you ever had the misfortune of inviting into your abode?

As it is Sunday tomorrow I will pray. I will pray for all the idiots in the world as there are many. I look forward to explaining my lack of will power and planning out some more mid-life crisis.

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Day eleven: Albino chilli red eye

I rubbed a finger in my eye.
Oh eye?
Oh aye!
Shortsighted I had fresh red chilli on my pointer. Longsightednessblindness now….ow! Who knows what I’ll tripe?

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So with red eye like my new visitor…the Albino hamster, chalk white with a weekend pass, we wonder what Saturday will hold. As he canters in his wheel, rut a tut tut tut, rut a tut tut tut…the nocturnal vermin tells me to sleep, this is his time…the night is young, the views are new… this wheel will NEVER get repetitive. Well hang on their fur purse, what about cat? He has never seen a hamster before, only an albino monk named Silas: he got right mad with him, so easy you little fair-haired Dwarf…

Russian…

…Hamster. Cats shits run the mill these days, no more constipation-she don’t want no aggravation.
There will be no bad-blood between these two fuzzy pets, so please readers do not fret.

As for Saturday, when I hope to awake, it will bring a yawn in bed and morning breath. I’ll stretch, I’ll scratch, cat will stretch and scratch, I guess the hamster might too…it’s Saturday for goodness sake, what else to do? The weather is planned chilli…just how I started today my blog , it’s almost gone full circle, like the hamster on the jog.

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Day ten: End of the week as we know it

Nearly Friday: I’ll cling to that tonight, I’ll cradle it like a benefit mums litre of wine- forefathers or four fathers? I couldn’t comprehend.

It’s Friday tomorrow.

I may cry with happiness in the morning and dance like Tina Turner when Friday is fulfilled, for we work far too hard.

For some, everyday is a Friday- and what then have you to look forward too?

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