Monthly Archives: July 2021

Covid jail day 4- Bush fruit and shit puns

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Hearing the gasps of shock upon stating that Small has been foraging for raspberries outside, gave it a fair 5 minutes before admitting that the fruit picking was from our garden. It would appear that in the 15 years that some previous owners lived here, they developed a penchant for bush fruit -snort- including gooseberries, and what I discovered following a very bitter mouthful wasn’t lethal but in fact blackcurrant. What do I do with a fuck tonne of blackcurrants?

Periodically affirming that I’m not the shittest Mom in a 50 mile radius as she’s feeling incredibly smug with the haul, I had to force myself not to laugh in her face as she badly washed then wolfed more than a couple of aphids along with these garden jewels. 

Day 2 of covid jail saw me in more than a small tangle. Who knew covid would give me the coccyx of an aged Chippendale and ankles of a hockey player? Maybe that’s just too much enthusiasm demonstrating weird and wonderful birthing positions. In any sense I felt like dog shit and spent most of the day hiding under a curtain of Netflix and self-pity, tactfully inviting Small to go and play on her swing in the attic. I fucking love that I can legitimately write that sentence.

Yesterday saw something mildly erotic happen in my kitchen. There was a flurry of activity, gaping holes were filled, and it was all followed with self-satisfied moans of fulfilment. The obscenity of the whole thing left me feeling spent, overwhelmed and in need of a nap. Thanks to two magnificent friend-folk I have the fullest fridge I reckon I’ve had in years. And I’m actually excited to cook! Much to Small’s protestations, she in fact having no choice but to embrace something other than the tin of beans I was hoping to trade for that post-apocalyptic prosthesis in years to come.

A haul even Jayne would be proud of!

Being able to have a conversation through the obsessively disinfected gate with one of your oldest friends that lockdown painstakingly drove a viral wedge between, was a highlight. Other than 2 minutes after the pubs reopened. The first of one of only two instances where I was Out out. Even if we couldn’t give Auntie Vicki a hug, seeing that cherubic face put a distinct zing on a day where in which half was dedicated to mentally writing a defence statement for how Thing ended up in the cellar. In a world where dark humour and blogs in a digital age are the perfect recipe for losing one’s registration, I shall refrain. Fuck, I’ve become a millennial meme-whore.

I suck at writing today, and am coming to the unfortunate realisation that maybe it wasn’t worth forking out a whole £10 to renew the domain. Fat and only mildly funny… not quite the same ring to it. One of the only things that I shall persevere with. Haven’t weighed self since day 1, and the list of shit to do hasn’t been updated since that damn positive test. How the fuck do I even manage to adult, when everything takes a lead time of at least 10 days? Shit, and now we know why the fireplace is still dusty. Or maybe that’s just me being marginally odd.
Small is practising with a gyroscope, it’s like watching someone giving themselves a breather by learning trigonometry and saving string theory for a rainy day. I’m not laughing, honest! Off to mourn my paling sense of blogging-worth with purple cheese, because why the fuck not?

 








Fatter, Older, and in Covid Jail- Day 1

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Day 1


On a scale of 1 to 10, how would you describe your customer
experience?

Zero. I rate it zero. I’m not entirely certain whether I’ve unknowingly
infected the whole fucking planet, or whether it’ll be OK because I’ve had both
vaccines and I’m a healthcare worker. The whole Test and Trace process is REALLY DAMN CONFUSING. (Small disclaimer here to state I figured it out and have
followed the guidance appropriately).

Ten. Fucking. Days.

I’m fatter, I’m older and I’m enforceably  at home for what feels like at aeon,
self-isolating with the same little fuckbag that spurred this blog’s beginnings
all those years ago. And Jayne. Thankfully (for both of us), at her house. Poor
sod counts as a chunky contact, so she gets to sit at home crocheting with Netflix
carefully defrosting mystery meat and meals prepped in the middle ages, smug
with such esteemed meal planning that an Insta-Ho would want a selfie with.

I get to isolate with Barnsley’s answer to Kim Jong-un.


Anyone remember?



In other news, our first day at home has lead me to other musings.

Small is sat before me eating an entire box of grapes, I’m
secretly wanting to shout at her for being so frivolous with the living green
things. Does she not realise we’re mere days away from eating the ‘freezer veg’?
That we’re one badly thought-out snack from having to reconstitute the sultanas?
Do I regret getting cocky with the bread dough ingredients yesterday and
wasting both a) and apple, and b) a can of cider? Yes of course I fucking do.
But it’s easier to scowl at a 6 year old greedily upending the sodding grapes
secretly cursing the fact that I have no snacks of any level of reasonable
entertainment.

A fortnight ago I gave a bestie’s 18-year old bottomless pit
all of the carbohydrates unfit for non-teenage consumption. I waved the hotdog
flavour Pringles away with not even a spared thought. How stupid was I, that
shit is practically real-estate. I could have traded this on the black market
for antibiotics, a prosthetic limb, all sorts. I could have re-lived my student
days and turned this into a fucking food group?! (Can we please have a moment
of silence for the kidney bean crumble of 2010?)

Job one: Find Batteries. 108.9kg. That’s about 99,000IU of tinzaparin. I’m pleased however, I thought I was 120kg. Every cloud. 108.9kg of course is rather large. I’ve spent the last year or two
genuinely making peace with my shape, size, lumps and bumps. In other word,
fat, loud and proud. Self-love doesn’t always start with a bath (because that’s
still upended in the spare room) and a glass of something pretentious in a
fluted glass for social media purposes. Sometimes it’s about loving the whole
person, or at least trying to learn to. That’s been my mission for a couple of
years now. Isn’t that a much more lovely way for describing an inability to see
your own twat in the shower?

That said, I genuinely felt like I was about to bring
a delivery bed crashing down when perching aside it getting ready to examine
someone recently (I’m used to apologising for the impromptu noises upon bending
for more organic reasons), so I cracked out the scales. What’s that? I don’t
exceed the weight limit for both a birthing ball, and the rubber dinghies
at water parks? (not that I’ll be visiting one anytime soon, from both a viral perspective and the less recent event of having to return a swimsuit I got stuck in and ripped open- the quest continues). I could possibly travel with more than one person in a Spanish lift? Life is fucking good. However, I’m feeling about as wholesome as re-warmed
donner meat on a Sunday morning.




So I have a theory. No Just Eat. Being forced to stay at
home and eating those things that get shoved further and further back on the shelf,
until you’re having to decide whether you’re barbecuing the cat or making a chickpea……
coconut…… mystery-freezer-veg curry. I may see if this is a thing.

I highly doubt I’m likely to be having an emotional Love
Actually style reunion with the aforementioned body parts as a result of
painstakingly eating vile food but it will be an interesting experiment.

 


We have a list. I feel like this has all the momentum of one
of those companies that save up your Christmas shopping money all year, to go
bust on December 1st, but we may as well try. A favourite was Hide
and Seek. I shall hide. She may seek. I’ll be rocking in the cellar like a shitfaced
Harry Potter.

I have 10 bottles of wine, 9 toilet rolls and two packets
of fags. Should be fun.