flossing the cat

This week, I’ve been mostly battling the symptoms of Suspected Peri-Menopause. It starts on Monday with an evil backache. In less than no time, I have turned from being a loving mother, partner, and daughter, into Quasimodo. So my partner drives me to the local pharmacy.   Now, the local pharmacist is a healthy young specimen. He isn’t sexy. He doesn’t smoulder. But he is handsome, and symmetrical, and if he were the last person on earth, you probably would. (To be honest, the criteria wouldn’t need to be that rigid.) So the last thing I want to discuss with the local pharmacist is my spine.  The very last thing I want to say is: Please, kind sir, I think I may have turned into a wretched hunchback. Could you please throw some rocks at me? This is not what I want. I want to be able to giggle furiously as I ask for a multi-pack of ribbed condoms. I want to blush like a teenager as I ask for the morning-after pill. I want to follow the local pharmacist into a private

Inanimate objects suck. With a few notable exceptions - such as books, a special companion of mine called Lelo who lives in a velvet pouch in my bedside cabinet, and my iPhone - inanimate objects are all assholes. Take this lot: Sellotape. Don’t buy sellotape. You will lose it immediately. When you lose it, there is absolutely no point looking for it in desks, cupboards, ‘odds and ends’ drawers, or any other place normally associated with stationery. Instead, save yourself some time and check the following places: the cat litter tray, the fireplace, the park, the mythological realms of Camelot and Atlantis, or any of the 26 space-time dimensions posited by string theory.   Curtain hooks etc The other day I was trying to hang some curtains. I quickly came to the conclusion that any item of hardware connected with drapery is, unequivocally, a cunt. Keys Keys are despicable objects that live deep inside the lining of your coat.  Nobody knows how they got there, or when, as your coat p

Not so long ago I took my car for a Gold Valet at a national car-wash chain. Usually I don’t go anywhere near car-washes or anything car-wash related. Whilst I’m not the kind of nutter who imagines that the giant foam brushes will crash through my windscreen or make me feel like I’m in a coffin, oh no no no, I’m still nervous of all those instructions about engaging certain gears, and stopping when certain lights flash, and how, if you’re not following the instructions, you might be KILLED or MAIMED in an unimaginably freakish way. But a valet sounds manageable. Even nice! I went as far as hoping it would mark the start of brand-new more organised me. Yeah, right. You see, I didn’t notice the small print, the invisible print, the print that should have been there:      Do not bring your car for a valet here unless you like ritual humiliation.   Do not bring your car for a valet here unless you like having shame heaped upon you. Definitely do not bring your car for a valet here IF