Not in that specific order. Beginning with profanity, which is provoked by the cathartic experience of watching ‘The Thick of It’, which we have now viewed twice. Malcolm Tucker’s rants are infectious, not to be enacted outside the house, but very emotionally liberating.
I wonder what happened when it was first shown?
I can remember the sight of people doing ‘The Ministry of Silly Walks’ after a Monty Python episode and Little Britain viewers saying ‘yeah, but no, but yeah’ and ‘bitty’.
So what did people do the next day after an especially juicy The Thick of It (TToI). The third series was especially fine, even without the presence of Jamie, the angriest Scotsman in the world. His iPod nano rant was just magic.
I just hope I don’t have a birthday cake with ‘Happy Birthday c*nt’ on it. After all, it was Malcolm’s 50th as well…
On to insanity. This is what those damn chickens are driving us to right now. Last night my husband, in the throes of ‘gripe tipo h’ (man flu) had to put them to bed. (gripe tipo hommes)
They had been disturbed the night before, by an enormous dog, who managed to push aside a large block of hardboard, move a heavy tile and push open the door.
It wasn’t a neighbour’s dog, but must have been mastiff-sized. It had been snowing and the paw prints showed up very clearly. HUGE they were…absolutely enormous.
So last night, all the girls were sitting on the fence. G, my husband threw them into the hen enclosure, then he walked around to put them to bed, except that they were having none of this. By the time he got to the gate, the girls were back up on the fence posts again. This was repeated four times, by which time G was a very unhappy camper indeed.
Like most men, he doesn’t do ‘ill’ well. He is a lovely, kind and charming man, but to be honest, he’s a rotten patient. To be honest, he had gone out the night before to round up the girls and cockerel in the snow.
Why didn’t I go? I’d got cold and wet and hypothermic and my hands and feet were in a great deal of pain.
I guess that he deserves a good old whinge. I even made him a cup of tea and that’s not something I do often.
Vanity. I’d like to be thought of as gorgeous and as my 50th birthday approaches, I have come to terms with the fact that this is less and less likely. I’m not photogenic. I don’t know why, but I just don’t have a face that photographs well.
On my 40th birthday, I thought I looked pretty okay. I’d been extremely ill and had recovered enough to have a party and it was wonderful. I, on the other hand resembled a balloon. Not so much in the body, but my face was red and round and due to too many courses of steroids. Not this year, thanks to the gods who live up on the hill…more of them another time.
I have a lovely passport photo. Last time I entered Spain (last year), I was exhausted and looked awful. The immigration guy actually raised an eyebrow at the photo. I just sighed and said ‘tomé en un buen dia’ (it was taken on a good day) and he let me in. I looked that bad? I guess I did.
So, in preparation of my upcoming birthday party, I’ve been diligently eating salad, working out with weights and even got my hair the right colour.
I’m pleading with you, oh gods of the high moor, let me look good in the photos? Just this once?