1 ~ My Mum has managed to pick up the MRSA superbug. Not content with being wheelchair-bound with MS, she is now full of Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus and has received completely the wrong treatment by being told to stick her leg in a bowl of potassium permanganate solution for twenty minutes rather than having her ankles gently dabbed with it by a friendly if slightly camp male nurse with a swollen leg fetish.
Now she has chemically induced burns.
Next week, Mum will be trying to contract bubonic plague and herpes in the space of an hour.
2 ~ One of our regular delivery guys popped into work yesterday. He asked me what my Christmas plans were. I said 'Sitting in front of the TV ignoring my relatives and eating my own body weight in Pringles'. He said he's a part time Soul DJ and has a few gigs lined up. Damn his more interesting life.
I told him I like soul but I love House. He casually mentioned that he had a Top Ten house hit back in the early '90s - as you do - with a track called 'Move your body'.
'Do you remember that?' he asked me.
'Erm, yeah mate. You were called Xpansions. The video featured lots of moving shapes and a cute wiggling blonde from Basildon. I've got you on my iPod. Sign and date this Despatch Note, and have a great Christmas.'
3 ~ This morning I woke up with a severe pain in the neck, and it wasn't Jay-K from Jamiroquai. Plus I've been double sneezing all day, a sure sign that I have a cold about to erupt. This is TYPICAL as I've had arranged for months a large pissup tomorrow with old work colleagues. I am now considering taking the day off work so I can have a lie-in (guilt will probably prevent me from sleeping though, despite offering to forgo a sickie by taking it as part of my remaining annual leave.)
I now don't know what to do. If I go to the pissup, I will be violently ill and unattractive in front of the two people who bother turning up. If I don't go, fifteen billion people will attend and it will officially be THE MOST AMAZING PARTY ON EARTH, EVER.
4 ~ Sore necks and general apathy meant I didn't cycle today, so I got to pay through the nose for London Underground's whodunnit of a service. The thrills included waiting at a nameless station staring at their huge LCD display for the whereabouts of the next train. Unfortunately, the display doesn't actually do anything useful like pronounce 'Your tube's here', or 'Your tube's about to leave' or 'Oh, it's gone.' It merely displays 'Please Wait Here' forever. Then you hear a rumble and run downstairs to find out what could possibly be making that train-like noise only to find your unannounced train pull in, then bugger off as you're nowhere near able to catch it. Trudging back to the LCD display, your mind befuddled with 'Why didn't that fucking display tell me that my train was coming?', you get to see the LCD equivalent of Stevie Wonder with earplugs telling you that absolutely nothing's on its way, and please keep waiting like a gathering of angry British twats.
5 ~ But moments later I was snapped from my reverie of anger when stood waiting for the lottery that is the next fucking train. A London Transport official was gentlemanly escorting an attractive young blind lady along the platform and out of the station. It's moments like this that snap you out of yourself, when you crack a little and thank the Gods that you have nothing to complain about. Then my tube arrived, so I got on and I read the paper. Three stops later, I happen to look up to see another London Transport official gentlemanly escorting another attractive young blind lady along the platform and out of the station.
What the bloody hell does that mean? I could've dated them.
6 ~ Somebody out there has nominated me for The Insignificant (Blog) Awards 2007. And for that I thank you. This blog is a number of things, largely shit and words pertaining to shit, plus it is also tremendously insignificant. I am quite profoundly moved (non-sarcastically, too) by this nomination. Oh, and I've just been notified by Anonymous from 'Embarrassing Memory #6' comments that tonight's London Lite newspaper has I Hate The Earth as its 'Blog Du Nuit'. Well I'll casually* believe that when I see it.
(* And by Casually, that means running off to my local tube just now, scouring their platforms, interrogating the staff, running off to my local boozer and rifling through their papers, visiting the newsagents, enquiring with my neighbouring gun-toting Poles, and finally banging on the door of the fluffy chinned South American downstairs to see if they have a copy lying around. They didn't.)