Tag Archives: detox

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 eight: Cats got a bite

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I was in a flap yesterday, not of the cat variety, how ironic that would have been. It was back to work ultramarine blues.  My full wrath of anger and bellyaching will come over the coming weeks, but not tonight: I am letting it swell into a mightier force, a tsunami of ill temper that I will unleash.  Remember this mid-life crisis comes early and it is planned.  No hasty decisions here.  Things on my agenda will include staffroom protocol… my blood boils.

I see the cat had a go yesterday instead of me, did a fair job too, perhaps we should form a coalition and scrawl together.  What do you think cat?… She’s not paying attention, she’s back on the hard stuff today. Biscuits that is, not heroine or smack but to her it’s probably just as good. Moments earlier the biscuits fell into her band-aid coloured bowl, it was a scene from a parachute drop in third world gratuity land – although with a cat and no helicopter, and due to personal preference as opposed to famine and desperation.

Snaffling and biting her way through the meaty atoms with aplomb she screams like a diva:

I-AMS a GO-CAT!

Yes you are.

***I had aspirations to blog everyday this year, but eight days in and already the cat is passing me a white flag purrrring for me to wave it aloft and have done with it.  The beers are doing exactly the same but so far I have been controlled.

I shall depart for the evening.  I am brewing a decaf tea for the other half, her new thing…

both cat and I will be on the look out for withdrawal symptoms.

What’s that cat? You’re passing her the white flag too?  Give her half a chance, she reads this.

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