toxicsoup

Well, not toxic, exactly... maybe just a little bit rank. But in a nice way. With a garnish.

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Queen Street

I am going to the cinema with Ickle Bro!

We walk through town.

This is not as simple as it sounds.

Ickle bro, who is younger than me, should Rightfully-As-A-Result-Of-Logic-And-The-Laws-Of-Science, be shorter than me. I'm sure it says somewhere in the Bible that I should be the tallest.
Unfortunately something went horribly wrong and I was robbed! I think this might have been a result of the council building a road past our village when I was 10. I expect I inhaled some dangerous pollutants and stopped growing.

Thinking about it, Ickle Bro should really be called Freakily Tall Bro and, I should be called Half An Inch Below Average FT. But that would be a stupid name. And anyway, I don't like to dwell on it.

I make a mental note to write a letter of complaint to the council

So we walk through town.

I walk Very VERY quickly and my legs move quicker than the speed of light. In fact, my legs move so quickly that to other people it might look as if they are moving backwards, like that weirdy optical illusion that happens to car wheels when you watch a Ferrari bombing around Brands Hatch.

Even so, every fifth pace, I have to do a little skip.
This is not becoming for a woman of 34.

“OY! Slow down!” I gasp. My legs are now making that really-quick humming noise that bicycle tyres make when you are cycling downhill at more than 40 miles per hour.

“Sorry!” says Ickle Bro, glancing down from somewhere up in the sky, looking surprised. He moves into Matrix-style slow motion, loping along as if in zero gravity. But still quicker than me. Bastard.

I wipe away the sweat from my chin and skip along behind him, in a way that I hope emphasises the fact that I am older and, therefore, still The Boss.

Monday, June 18, 2007

day trip

We have decided to go to the National Botanic Gardens of Wales, to cheer ourselves up. It is a scorcher of a day and it would be criminal to stay indoors.

I spend a while choosing which hoodie I should wear, as the gardens will be full of old people and I wouldn't want to scare them. I wear hoodies all the time and must surely have a Day-Out-to-the-Country Hoodie. We are young, and vibrant, and full of life and I want my hoodie to reflect that, without looking like a drug-dealer.
I expect we will be the only young people there.

We boil a kettle so that we can make a flask of coffee. This is NOT a Granny thing to do, it is just that I need caffeine in order to stay awake for such a long journey, as it might take more than an hour. I take a moment to spike my hair, as I am Young and Funky.

“Aaaargh!” Imp yells from the kitchen.

I run.
She has burned her hand with boiling water! She is not having much luck at the moment.

***

We climb into the car. Imp has to be careful because of her whiplash injuries and, because she has been holding her hand under cold running water for the last 15 minutes.

“Oooowwwww!” she yelps. “The sun's burning my hand!”. The temperature inside the car is about 3,482,800,0000000000 million degrees. This is what it must be like to live in Torquay.

I run back into the house and soak a bundle of kitchen towel in cold water, so that she can wrap her hand in it. We strap her special neck-collar into place. She is very fragile at the moment.
We pull away.

“How's your hand?” I ask, anxious. I indicate, to drive around a leaf.

“Still burning”. She looks really depressed.

I open the sunroof. “Stick your hand out the sunroof, the wind will keep your hand cold!”
I am a genius. I am surprised that Alan Sugar hasn't rung me yet. I expect he is waiting for his current assistant to fail miserably so that he won't get sued for violating Equal Ops, or something.

“I can't!” Imp looks apologetic. “I can't lift my arms above my head because of my neck”.

I press the opening-window button. That idea doesn't work either, because Imp burned the wrong hand.
I close all the windows and the sunroof and put the air conditioning on.

Imp's phone bleeps. It's a text! I hope that it is her ex-husband so that we can complain about him a bit.

Imp is having trouble pressing the buttons on her phone, because her hand is swathed in soggy kitchen towel. I am getting impatient.

“Who is it?” I ask, casually-yet-nosily.

“Dunno”. She rummages around in her bag. “I can't see it, without my reading glasses”.

We continue, in this manner. Young, vibrant.

Thursday, June 14, 2007

beaten

Imp has been assaulted!

There is Good News and Bad News.

The Good News is that there were about 50 witnesses.

The Bad News is that she has got whiplash injuries, which means that we can no longer play squash, which means that I will get fat and become so big that I will have to be hoisted by crane from my first-floor window into a truck in order to be transported to hospital, where they will all mutter and stroke their chins while scraping the dying flesh from the folds in my ankles. Then I will die from obesity and will have to be buried in a specially-constructed coffin with cantilever supports.

But anyway, it's not about me.

Imp has got to wear a special collar! It is to hold her head up so that she can carry on working.

“I look like a nob”, she says, sadly.

“You look gorgeous!” I lie, hastily. If she had bigger teeth she would look like Smashie, of Smashie and Nicey fame. With purple hair.
I decide not to tell her this.

She stares gloomily out the window.

I think she can read my mind.

Monday, June 04, 2007

going to work

I have designed a fool-proof system for holding the door open!

My flat has got a very determined fire-hingey-thing to ensure that the door stays closed in case of fire, effectively making it harder for me to get out and therefore making it necessary for me to leap from the bedroom window, thus breaking both my ankles.

All fire doors are installed with this in mind, which is why firemen get to climb up ladders and carry people and look heroic.

Normally I can get out of the door okay (when there isn't a fire) and as along as I remember to hurl myself through, it doesn't get me. I would estimate my Getting-Through-The-Door-Without-Personal-Injury (henceforth referred to as GTTDWPI) rate to be about 85%.

However when I am wheeling my push-bike, the GTTDWPI odds drop to approximately 40% for me and, 0%x3 for my bike.

Now I have a weapon. A bungee cord... which stretches from the back of the door, to the bathroom door handle. I simply stretch the cord, hook it over the door handle... and the fire-hingey-thing is foiled (Aha!), allowing me to wheel my bike out without even moderate-to-severe bruising/denting to the shins/forks.

***

I am in a rush!

I put my rucksack and helmet on (I do not look at all like an Anorak) and prepare my GTTDWPI device. Checking that the bungee cord is hooked safely over Doorhandle1, I stretch it, straining, towards Doorhandle2.

Now. The obvious danger here is that the bungee cord will slip from Doorhandle1 while I am stretching it towards Doorhandle2, twanging back at great speed and hitting me full force in the arm, bringing tears to my eyes and unsavoury words to my lips.
But it won't, because I have performed this many times before with crowd-cheering success.

I carry on straining, confidently.

It.Twangs.

Hard.

Owwwwwwww!

My eyes water and I swear. Expertly.
My GTTDWPI device has failed!

Bastard! I can feel my arm bruising and the blood pooling, as I yelp.

I am a Failure. Even more so than Clive Sinclair! At least his crap inventions don't hurt him.

I struggle through the door, repeatedly being bashed in the shins/shoulder/arm/forks/back wheel and limp down the stairs - bashing my shins on the pedals for good measure - with my best Bad Mood face on.