The whole fucking bloody ruined

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I’ve cut the hedge today, the sparrows have gone. I checked, before you reign down fire and brimstone on me,  every time I wash up, which I do a fair bit since my new pans have arrived, they’re dishwasher safe but are they? I wash up anyway, we do have a dishwasher because we strive to be as impressive as the neighbours, but I like the feel of the hot soapy water on my hands, always have and what of it. So sorry to get off on a slightly boorish tip but thats how I feel.

After a  poor few nights sleep, firstly due to the terrible mattress in  Norfolk, yes they’re all like that, the whole county, full of shite mattresses, recycled from fly tip after fly tip, its like that, The Fens. The reason for the poor sleeping patterns assuming the mattress issues void is the impending shed construction I was considering undertaking. My mate told me to “Just fucking Whack it up” but i’m no carpenter, less a Jesus, and so the thought of an L shaped shed taking me months and becoming my nemesis, with my adoring family looking on in despair as I wrung my hands fallen to my knees, looking up at the skies and shouting “Why? Why?” was too much for me to bear in my little brain. So after being short with most of my family this morning in the week which i’ve taken off to do the shed I admitted that its not going to be for me and sat outside with coffee, brooding. My fucking vape had need of a replacement coil too so I had to drive to the town, the town had cones and signs telling me to go else where, go in another direction, and being a bit cute I took another way, got stuck, had to turn back fucking 50 minute journey to get my fix.

We journeyed to the garden shed place, the plece where robbers took a shed with a grab crane one night last year, they put cones out, flashing lights and lifted a fancy garden office over the security fence, no one batted a fucking eyelid. This is what happens in the kingdome of Shrawley, everyone is rotten to the core. Apart from the people who are going to sell us a shed, they don’t know it yet but they are, its cheaper than every one else, I drink occasionally with him, not since the pub landlord came out…

As a massive racist.

Aand so drinking in my local in my village has become slightly tricky. His wife has a metallic sheen to her complexion but she’s really sweet, like Cadburys metal milk. She won’t read this, no one does in this place.

I cut the hedge, previously mentioned and queued in the leisure centre car park for forty minutes in a kind of tip diversion to throw away my green matter, thorny bush cuttings which gloves need to be worn . The queue edging forwards, really slowly, gradually, until we were all let off the leash, running for the tip, across the road, into the rubbish compound only to be tantalised and stuck in a further queue, waiting for people to leave, wondering what the hell the delay was, how much fucking rubbish do people have for fucks sake?

Tip, Drive home, stop off at the pub (only the mildly racist one) and sat in the garden looking at the river and the barge which carries the ballast down river to the bridge where theres something happening, but I don’t know what, like an Iain Banks book. At home, Mrs T was trying to dig out a splinter when I returned. “The clothes prop needs to be less splintery” So, like a great husband I tried to sand the thing down, masturbating the wooden shaft with sandpaper, and within 10 seconds I’ve got a slinter underneath my finger nail, all the way to the point where the finger nail begins, I can see it. And so I start the butchering of the nail, and the finger skin with scissors, nail clippers, needles and bicarbonate of soda in boiling water to get the sod out.

As I type, every other letter is  a letter of pain as the finger next to my thumb on my right hand pounds the keyboard; the splinter manifest. While I was stood next to the sink, looking at the hedge with the decapitated corpses of sparrows and baby hawks I caught my ancient croc on my ankle, reopening an old wound without realising, blood everywhere.

I’m hoping for a dreamy sleep tonight, an early morning stroll with my pals and no minor injuries with the potential to become several major crises.

 

One comment

  1. You crack me up! So good. Although, I must say, i too have had a splinter all the way to nail bed. Hurts like a motherfucker. I was about 11 maybe?? Might’ve been younger. I was making my bed (good girl) listening to a cassette with Olivia Newton-John’s greatest hits, specifically ‘Have you never been mellow’ when tucking the sheet under the mattress a splinter from the base (it was an all wooden base, with drawers too. Fancy!) snuck itself all the way from the bottom to the tip of the nail, even coming out of the tip a bit. I went to my mum and dad, all shaky, white and teary and told them I had a splinter. Dad goes, ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s just a splinter’. Mum took one look at my finger and ripped dad a new one before almost passing out herself. Anyhoo, Mum took it out with tweezers…it just slid right out. But I’ve never forgotten it. One of those defining moments 🙂

    Like

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