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The (Delayed) Anablog. Chapter Five.

1 Jun

This week has felt neverending. Like ‘The Neverending Story’. Which incidentally, did eventually end. Two things always stick in my mind from that film. First is the inaudible nature of the vitally important word that gets yelled out by Bastian into the storm to save Fantasia right at the crux of the storyline. ‘You know the name, Bastian! Please! Call out my name!’ Glad you know the name because to this day I don’t really. Even after all the slowed down playback I did as a child, adolescent and adult trying to work it out.

Second being my King of horse actor-based facts; which is that Artax actually drowned making that Swamp of Sorrow scene. Well, I use the word ‘fact’ relatively loosely; I have reason to believe it might actually be false.  But it is a 75% horse actor based fact.

Your horse tugging's no good around these parts, boyo! He's actually genuinely full of sorrow and panic but his horse acting is just too damn good. R.I.P horse actor. Probably.

I hope you’ve been thinking that a trendy 20-something hipster like myself has been just too darn socially active over her Bank Holiday weekend and that is why the final proper installment of this anablog odyssey has taken his sweet sweet time to pull his socks up and tuck his pressed shirt into his ‘good’ trousers to provide literature for your eyes. Its actually more to do with an intense work schedule. Employment. Tsk. Who wants it eh? Well apart from all of the hungry people in the bread queue or waiting for a place in the poor house.

Think yourself lucky. This nearly never even happened as I have been afflicted with another wicked hangover. The sort which is heightened by being told various things you said/did/broke the night before that the memory department of your brain rather inconveniently clocked off for. I went into a picture-book pleasant place called Didsbury with a couple of my housemates who had also been drinking with me to try and cure ourselves with niceties such as civilised brunching, smoothies and visiting fancy butchers amongst all the decent local people. There they were; breezing through their clean, graffiti-less lives with their posh cheeses and their dignity. It was all very lovely but made returning home a bit like going back to a scruffy pit of despair after a day trip to an exotic paradise.


I sat listening to a ‘Strictly Come Dancing’ style covers album of Rolling Stones songs. Not as ghastly as it sounds. Although the mental image of Mick Jagger in tight trousers and an open-chest sheer glittery shirt wiggling his tush, is.  It was that pleasant to listen to, cocktail in hand in the sunshine, that we went and asked the name of the album. ‘Bossa n Stones’. I recommend. Here is one of my favourite Stones songs being covered in a beautifully hot-day way.

Mojitos are on the menu here. They make my Dad shudder. On a recent trip to Manchester I successfully got him utterly wrecked on an alcoholic mix of a madman. Mojitos were the intermediate stage of the evening. It ended with him on tequilas and lager dancing with my Mum to obscure Latin rhythms in a trendy bar in town. Suffice to say, the memories of the subsequent hangover have put him off my favourite delicious minty cocktail.


We are driving back from a day in a place called Albufeira. I’m watching the billboards zoom past advertising all kinds of things. One is for luxury fireplaces. It featured an elderly white-haired couple in a passionate embrace. I first thought it might be a 10×20 foot ad for viagra and squirmed a bit.

Sir Cliff Richard has vineyards and his on range of wines out here. We went into a shop the other day which had a life-size cardboard cutout of Cliff enjoying a glass of his vino. I sort of instantly wanted the cut out. Then realised a) he would probably need his own passport to get him back and b) that to have a six foot Cliff Richard in your living room would be naff kitsch to an extreme level. I wonder if he uses ‘Mistletoe and Wine’in his television adverts. Must look out for billboards advertising for Sir Cliff’s mistletoe farms.

Everything about his being never fails to muster a 'lol' from me.

I looked in every shop in Albufeira for a) more Kitty stuff and b) Mint Cornettos. Apart from my friend Dan, who apparently recently acquired one, I fear that Mint Cornettos have actually died out. Maybe he found his in a semi thawed glacier like an ice-age man preserved and trapped in time. This is a very sad business regardless. I love them nice creams.

We went to a restaurant tonight in which I enjoyed thoroughly. It was all down to this one absolutely stunning dish they have there. Divine. Exquisite. I couldn’t get enough. I cannot put into words the immense pleasure.

His name was Paolo.

He was an ex-professional footballer, now waiter for his family business with a body that dropped a thousand jaws and a rump juicier than all the steaks in the Algarve. Eyes as deep and warming as hot chocolate, skin that looked like it had been varnished by the Gods, and a smile that welcomed each new butterfly into my tummy with a glass of sparkling pink champagne. He was, the definitive swoon.

Each touch of my arm and kiss of my cheek took me straight back to gazing at posters of East 17 and 911 longingly after prising them carefully from the pages of my ‘Smash Hits’ magazine.

For any gentlemen not being bowled over by Paolo  reading this wanting a slice of the swoon, he grew up and remains to be friends with Nani. Of playing soccer-kick at that wretched place in Stretford fame.

Oh yeah, they also had this WELL nice chocolate pudding at this restaurant. So good I nearly wet myself with joy.


The Anablog. Chapter Four.

29 May

I am writing to you from the comfort of my first ‘proper’ lie-in for what feels like… well, too ruddy long. You know the kind… the sort where you only get up through desperation for the toilet and roll around in bed with crippling hunger pains but going to the kitchen seems far too much effort? I am at the stage just approaching the point where my own stink is unsettling me a little bit.

I do need to get myself up. I am still yet to go out and replenish my poor bare kitchen areas. If I leave my fridge shelf empty for much longer he might get put up for adoption. There’s plenty of other people that would show him the love and attention that he deserves. Each time I open my cupboard door its like unveiling a whining pup with adorable watery eyes. So sad.

Then of course there’s my bedroom which has the look of a vagrant in the throes of depression. Sprawled out and disheveled and never re-ordered post-holiday. Essentially, I should never be allowed to put myself in a situation where I need to unpack more than three day’s worth of clothes. {Saying that, three day’s worth of clothes invariably requires a minimum of five dresses, three pairs of shoes and two and a half stones of make-up and accessories.}

I have been distracted somewhat by a mixture of internet dating {an entire blog will be dedicated to this sometime soon I am sure} and listening to a band called ‘The Baseballs’ on Spotify. My brother told me about them the other day and Spotify unnecessarily felt the need to advertise their album to me… while I was listening to it. Simmer down, I’m trying my best you infernal thing. However, said advertising suggests that maybe they’ll become more familiar sometime soon. I know contemporary covers have a bad name for themselves what with the plethora of ‘kooky’ pop-punk and indie takes on the idea; not to mention my personal hideous experiences of teenage unsigned bands taking them on at Manchester Academy. However, I think they are going to be my perfect summer album if ol’ Ma Nature is kind and belts out some of that sunshine I know she’s got knocking around out back. In the Argos warehouse-type weather shelving facility I’ve just created in my head. Fifties is in. Ray-Bans, high-waisted shorts and a do-wop version of ‘Don’t Cha’ on my iPod? Yes please.

Find them on Spotify but here is a smidgen of what to expect from Youtube…. German lads sounding American singing Rihanna. Even better than you’d think.

Now! To the blog!!


I discovered today that I have an insect bite on my rude lady bits. I can’t think of anyone in the world that such a rubbish thing would happen to but me. What kind of wicked and perverted creature would do such a thing? The local community of insects best keep their eye on him or the next thing they know he’ll be in office as Chancellor planning to eradicate moths. Or something. And to think I spent my precious time I could have spent napping to save so many of his kind yesterday? Makes me sick.

Mum made me get out of bed first thing in the morning to have a look at some admittedly beautiful flowers growing outside my window. They were a gorgeous deep rich purple colour. I think they are like women that are beautiful and know it and see it fit to look down their nose at others. They wouldn’t let me capture their petal colour properly with my camera.  Its like I apparently don’t deserve it. Bitches.

Apparently they’re called Morning Glory. ‘Lolz.’

Filthy named purple flowery kitten ears. Teeheehee.

We had a mooch about. I got excited about anything ‘Hello Kitty’ related in any of the little shops’ windows. Which was a fair few. There was also a ‘Hello Kitty’ ride spotted… one of them ones where you pop a coin in and it just shunts back and forth but is the most exciting thing in the world when you’re five years old. Or twenty three. Makes you wonder why parents ever forked out to take you to a theme park. You’d save an absolute fortune just taking the sproglets down to the shopping centre to sit in Noddy’s car a few times.

No I didn’t have a go on the Kitty ride.

Two of my favourite things in one picture. Yes, that is indeed a booze shop behind her. Weirdly enough, I spotted another one of these in another town and that one was parked outside an offie too. Maybe the local kids like to get tanked up before hopping on for the ride just to enhance the experience.

It’s particularly quiet everywhere compared to all the times when I used to come here growing up. Today we walked past an abandoned restaurant. He looked so sad. There were smashed windows, graffiti on the walls, tattered canopies over the windows. I could imagine him being a lovely little place in his prime. There was an open terrace and an outdoor barbecue, all on top of a cliff looking out to sea.

Even when I used to do art I always had a fascination with decaying or unloved things like old buildings or walls and feel immediately inclined to take photos of them. They look so sad. Maybe my preoccupation with the useless and defunct would account for my terribly poor choices in men.

A lick of paint and a visit from Mr Ramsay and I'm sure we'll be swell... who's in?

The Anablog. Chapter Three.

27 May

Upsettingly this all does feel like so very long ago. I’ve had two days back at work now and I am ruing every second of unnecessary indoors based minute of sleeping I might have had. My poor innards probably don’t know what’s hit them either… a week of wonderful nutrition, fresh fish, clean air… now I’m back to coughing in the smog and eating dry cereal out of a packet whilst foraging my kitchen cupboard for substantial sensible foods which I know are stuff of pure myth to my poor Mother Hubbardism afflicted shelves. I did eat dry cereal out of the packet on holiday too. ‘Cini Minis’ or ‘Cinnamon Grahams’ as they are known over here should never be damaged by cow juice, even if they are supposed to. They can stand alone as a delicious breakfast feed. It’d be like putting  chocolate sauce on fish and chips.


I am watching a tiny spider run up my bare leg. I never know which ones are Money Spiders so superstition always forces me to let any species of small spider have free reign of my person. My shin must look really strange from his view. Any hairs I missed shaving this morning will come at him like something on ‘Total Wipeout’. It is, of course, no contender to out-do ‘Takeshi’s Castle’ but it’s pretty solid entertainment. On a par with ‘Hole in the Wall’. My favourite part of ‘Takeshi’s Castle’ is watching the contestants attempt the round called ‘Skipping Stones’ involving running across a mix of solid and rogue stepping stones across a pond. Invariably, it tends to be a case of so-near-but-so-far when they end up crashing straight into the water next to the bank, dually smashing both their dreams and faces.  The best part about the entire show is that I never have the slightest clue if anyone ever actually wins. I am bored of spider now and am worried about where his final destination might be, so he gets removed.

Turns out this is what they look like. This chap wasn't one of him. Just a local arachperve.

My Mum tells me she is macerating some strawberries and that for a fruit salad later. She says that she doesn’t like that word, ‘macerate’. I suggest that it might be because it sounds a bit like both ‘masturbate’ and ‘lacerate’, neither of them being great things to the apparently polite members of society.


I just went to get into the pool. There was a snake in it. He was pretty cute but didn’t look too happy. He kept swimming towards the edge and rubbing his head up the wall. I thought it must be frustrating trying to climb out of a pool when you’ve got no arms or legs. He moved a bit more slickly than an amputee though with his obviously snake like hips. Well, not hips. Spine. He’s a snake. I went and got a local mop and lifted him out. I felt like Steve Irwin. Sans stingray incident.

Now he was gone I thought it safe to go in. But for some reason the pool is like the scene after Titanic went under today. There’s endless corpses bobbing all over the surface. Still in animal rescue mode, I set to fishing them out and putting them on the side. The perimeter of this aquatic oasis is now a grim bug’s graveyard. I am proud to say that I did save the lives of at least six flapping winged creatures. Bit of a waste of time really. They probably only live for a day anyway.

It wasn't all death and misery. There were plenty of pretty flowers. These ones matched me. Look!

I’ve just watched an ant drag away the frayed corpse of a moth-type thing. The micro equivalent of watching a sweaty bloke from Iceland drag a juggernaut on a thick bit of rope on one of those ‘World’s Strongest Man’ type competitions. At least I tried to rescue the moth-thing and now the great circle of life means Mr Ant and his family will get a cracking feed tonight.

I ate prawns today. They are such ugly looking creatures. I’d like to know who first thought to give them a go. They eat rubbish off the ocean floor and look like they’re really out of the whole evolutionary loop. It’s such a savage process even getting into them. I started to consider the possibility that one day a giant alien race may come down and laugh at the puny nature of existence. Maybe they would fry us up with some chilli and garlic and snap our heads and legs off, rip out our colon before enjoying the micro morsel of our fleshy torsos.

And I couldn’t help but think about this guy as I tucked in.

I got sangria to go with my meal. I talked to the girl who made it about Kat Von D after she admitted to admiring my boobs. She then told me that my sangria contained triple sec, a sweet red wine, brandy, port, creme de menthe as well as 7up and Fanta.

I thought it was just a bit of watered down vino so had just been knocking it back. I realised I’d probably be tipsy before bedtime.

We talked to an Irish couple about poteen that they used to buy from an old man called Tom Flynn in a tiny sleepy village in the old country. He owned a shop that apparently sold anything from an anchor to a needle. I’d like to make him into a cartoon character.

The Anablog. Chapter Two.

25 May

Good evening blogleteers. Here is part two of the Sanderson holiday diary.


Today I made friends with a local cat. I tried to speak to him, mewing various greetings. I didn’t get much response. But then I realised that he probably only speaks Portuguese. The language barrier is no obstacle though and he is soon more than happy to have a cuddle. It’s not like he’s a reluctant victim of anything. Well…. he didn’t react like this or anything.

We were the best of pals. Look!

Mewcy and Misc Kitten BFF. ❤ etc.

Me and my Dad had a knock about with a ‘Hello Kitty’ bat and ball set my parents got me from the supermarket to keep me occupied. It was all fun and larks until I got wretched barb like things that were concealed in the grass stabbing my feet to smithereens. Think upturned plugs and sticklebricks in the night times ten. Vicious swines. Had to sit down to pull them out of my skin. Got one stuck into my bumcheek.

Went to the supermarket for booze and cures for my ailments various. They have super posh toilet roll fit for kings. They come in threes in those types of cardboard tubes you get whiskey in. Three ply too… just stop to imagine that for a minute. THREE PLY. They were in all kinds of technicolour shades. I nearly got a lime green or fluorescent pink set. My Dad said they should do a set in brown. We then saw that these tubes were about thirteen euros.  For that extravagant price I think I’s rather wipe my bum directly onto the cash.

We opted for some that was a couple of euros for twelve, which were inexplicably embossed with a ghost pattern.

Casper might not smile so much if he knew where he was headed…

We went to the beach. A big wave knocked my Mum over and she fell flat on her arse. I laughed.

I had my first wee in the sea for about three years. I was enjoying the warmth on my thighs when I trod on some spiky shingle. I gave the last few drops the strength of a power shower and got out.

I have only been a paddler when it comes to seaside frolics. I don’t like the idea of all kinds of misc swilling around my ankles. I always, for some reason, imagine crabs sidling up to me and having a go on my toes like they do in cartoons. In my mind, all crabs are bad. From sea-dwellers to STI’s. I think I inflicted this fear upon myself a little bit by being mildly obsessed with freakish-fish-of-the-depths type documentaries.

At one point there was a woman with the most sickeningly perfect body strolling down the sand. Topless. She had a perfect tan. I don’t tan. A completely flat stomach. My love for beer and pastry means that this aint going to be the case for me any time soon. She had a pert peachy bum. I, for some reason, lack any sort of shapely behind. It’s a boy’s bum I have. However, there is one saving piece of joy. She was indeed topless, but had the flat chest of a twelve year old; whereas I have a most blessedly ample rack. HA! In your face Mrs Perfect Pants! Well, she was wearing a thong actually. Cow.

We went to a restaurant my Dad has been raving about since we set foot here. I was worried it’d be like when a film gets over-hyped and you leave saying ‘I still think Star Wars is better.’  But actually, it was really good.

I happened to tell the very friendly girl at the bar that I had an absolutely stinking cold and had been unable to taste a thing since I had arrived in the country. She said she had just the thing for me. She poured me a shot from a mystery bottle on the shelf behind her and told me to drink it. It felt like a mouthful of the deepest depths of hell. She tells me its something called ‘firewater’ made from berries grown on some local mountains. It is said to kill the bug making you ill. As well as 50% of your braincells.

I’ll hand it to her, its medicinal properties were outstanding. I could taste every mouthful of my dinner. Dad had a shot and didn’t enjoy it.

Installment three available on local computers near you on the morrow. I failed to go knitting today. I am letting down the world of craft.

I didn’t get too sunburnt.

25 May

For anyone fearing that I may be one almighty blogging flake you can shut that proverbial trap of yours for here I am, my arms laden with straw donkeys and verbal morsels for you to chomp on. Actually straw donkeys are a Spanish thing which would probably account for why I didn’t see a single one in any shop. I have just had a few days away in the continent darling, Portugal to be precise. Ma and Pa Sanderson were planning a trip and decided that their poor waif of a child lamenting in the north of England may appreciate a little bit of sunshine and take me along. Free holiday? Hummm… yes please.

I will take this opportunity to quickly introduce you to this week’s set of bloglets. I have had this all written down in a notebook I took away with me. Dedication. It’s what you need if you want to be a record breaker you see.

I don’t know if I’m going to be able to find an internet cafe around here. I’m not trying to say that Portugal hasn’t discovered computers yet, but generally speaking the local vicinity is primarily dedicated to golfing, sunshine and snacks.

So what you are reading is lifted from a good old fashioned analogue blog. I’m gonna say it… yes, it’s an anablog.

Let me take you back…


It will, until I forget about it, linger in my memory as the most obscenely long day. Time is strange, isn’t it. An apparently unchangeable and unstoppable thing can be completely different from one day to next. Well, this day felt like when you get a slightly warm Curly Wurly and bite into it and the toffee gets stretched out further and further until it snaps. Yeah, like that.

I thought it was Snickers that used to be called Marathon?

I was to have a day shift at work, then had to pack and manage to squeeze in some kip after I’d got myself all sorted.

The day shift happened anyway, then I got struck down by some extreme girly-ness. Anguish various from not one, but two gentlemen (not as dodgy as it sounds.) . I promised not to go Carrie Bradshaw, so I won’t go into it. But suffice to say, it falls under the cliched umbrella of ‘Men are wankers.’

Precious packing time was stolen by weeping, anger, and my housemate doing the right thing offering me soothing, self affirming words. And ice cream. It got so late that I realised that kip was off the menu and I was going to have to just go straight through as I had to leave the house at 3am for my coach to the airport. This was helped greatly by another two of my housemates, who, in their own way also provided me with some comfort by showing me this film which they stumbled across on Sky’s ‘Horror’ channel. It was, for want of a better phrase; fantastically s**t.

It kinda rolled into the first day of the actual holiday really so may as well bunch the two entries together…

Tuesday 18th May

5.15 am. Departures. Liverpool John Lennon Airport. I am drinking borbon with ginger ale and musing on the fact that in about three small hours I will have been awake for 24 hours. I don’t know how Jack Bauer does it.I’m knackered. I talk to a couple of old scouse ladies eating their packed lunch in Wetherspoons. We collectively scorn the ash cloud for the stress and disruption he caused. They’re off to Benidorm. Of course they are.

6.00am. On the plane. All I want to do is sleep. I’m at that stage where I am a fugitive on the run from rest and Detective Inspector Exhaustion has caught up with me and has be flat on the ground with his big fat boot pressing against the side of my head. Guess what? There are no less than FIVE babies on this flight. I want to henceforth rebadge my flight as my ‘plight’.

It goes without saying that, of course, I manage to get surrounded by these ticking timebombs of tears and smelly nappies. I feel like a poor helpless antelope, tired and just wanting to stop for a breather, with a circle of ruthless lions with kicky feet coming to tear the fibres of my being apart with screaming and crying and a barrage of pain and misery.

I was busy cursing the adorable but startlingly strong-legged little boy booting the hell out of the back of my seat when his Mum starts to read about ‘Mr Grumpy on a boat’ aloud to him. Substitute the his transport and give him a sex op and yeah, we’re about where I’m at.

After arriving and getting to where we were staying I realised that the cold I had felt brewing before I left was worse than I thought as I couldn’t taste a drop of my first sip of cool Sagres. Cast-iron, 24 carat disaster. I obviously feigned joy for the sake of photography though.

Did a lot of kipping by the pool and had tea at a place my Dad insists on calling ‘The Pizza Hut’. It aint a ‘Pizza Hut’. It just sells pizzas amongst other things. I believe they were probably nice. My senses were being held hostage by the evil Count Blocken-Sinus and his mucal henchmen. They robbed me of my chance of ever knowing what that bruschetta tasted like.

Well…. that is the first installment. Don’t worry they aren’t all full of woe. I failed to manage to get the word ‘corpse’ into that one. But its in the blog now through that very observation. I’m sure Descartes would have something to say about that.

I must get to sleep. I have the textbook returning-to-work misery post-holiday to look forward to in the morning, and I am also dabbling with the idea of going to a knitting group with a couple of friends in the evening. How very wholesome.

4 Hours, 3 Sandwiches, 2 Little Room and A Baby.

15 May

Greetings Blogzoes, have you missed me? If the answer is anything but a resounding yes I shall be reaching for the kitchen scissors and forcing through an expiration of our friendship by cutting up your membership card post haste. You have no idea of the cuddles and baked goods you will forego.

Where have I been? I have a good answer for this. I have migrated living space this week to the considerably larger bedroom next to what was mine in my house. This took up all of my spare time. It is neither piffle nor poppycock. I daresay I reckon I could potentially be the solution to cure all of the problems in the third world if only I gave all of my inventory of utter nonsense to Oxfam. They would never need to ask for a donation ever again. But alas I am nothing but a shallow shoe smitten, trinket treasuring, bric-a-brac bewitched twerp. And, it really did require all the energy I could muster to get such an overwhelming task well and truly… tasked. However, my new room is looking like a palace. Anyone lucky enough to get an invite to Sanderson’s Sleepover Club is in for a treat. I would like to clarify that is euphamism free. I like to kip in with my loved ones and tell ghost stories under the influence of muffins and whiskey-what of it?

Today I write to you from the comfort of Ma and Pa Sanderson’s house in the lovely quaint leafiness of Surrey. Wanna see?

Oooh green.

I’m from a little town where the biggest news of recent years was the local Waitrose burning down. Through arson??? No. Just a bit of a whoopsie. Not really even a legit disaster. The local old folk just had to hold fire {unintentional but cracking pun there. So much so that it’s staying. And that’s that.} on getting their organic eggs and lamb cheeks for a bit or whatever it is them posher types of supermarkets monger.

I swear this is God's honest truth, there is a book available, called 'The Great Fire of Banstead' to commemorate. This was said of the event: "It was a night that the people of Banstead will never forget. The fire that destroyed Waitrose in Banstead High Street will be etched on people’s minds forever. Ninety people were evacuated and dozens spent the night in a community hall." Try selling it to the poor blighters that happened to move to Pudding Lane in 1666, yeah? Jeez.

Oh yeah and there was that corpse found in some woodland somewhere recently. Non-Waitrose related. Beady eyed viewers of this blogging odyssey may have noticed I have used the word ‘corpse’ multiple times over various days. This wasn’t actively done. It’s not like I’m Wednesday Addams. It’s just unfolded thus. But, would you mind awfully if I tried to include the word at least once per blog? Like a sub-challenge? We shall see how it goes. There’s not always a call for corpses. Unless you’re filming ‘Murder She Wrote’. Or you’re in the coffin fashioning biz. Or just a straightforward necrophile.

So, I’m at home for the quickest of visits. Let’s, for argument’s sake, call it the swift half in time terms. It’s equally weighted for football, friend’s-birthday-celebrations and hair dying reasons. But if said friends are reading this… it is TOTALLY for you. Obv. Ahem.

I enjoy visiting the motherland, but not so much the means of getting here. I am a veteran of Megabus-ing. I could be the female, less beardy, slightly hotter Ray Mears of it in fact. I have tips and everything. If you keep it to yourself I’ll tell you this one- always get in the queue for the luggage stowing before you boldy flirt with the notion of stepping up to the driver with that Superdrug receipt you scribbled your ticket code onto. Only a fool does this. You effectively cut queuing time by up to 37% by remembering this simple ditty; ‘Stow before you go. {To the driver.}’ Like that? You can have that for free. Any subsequent tips will cost you sixty five pence a pop.

Surly drivers, cramp, toilets I'd avoid even if I had the squits, creepy man in the logo; all for the bargain price of £1!!! (Sometimes.)

I reckon I might have spent up to a week in total on these chaps. To be fair, it really is good value. If you book fifteen years in advance you probably can get a ticket for a pound. (Before booking fee etc.) I’ve usually got my routine down for ensuring optimum comfort and promoting Megacus chic. Often I get a two seat berth, and that is without having to do the whole strategic bag-placement as a means to stake a claim on the adjacent pew. I suppose I could just be repellent to all other passengers. Maybe that can be a supplementary measure, neglecting personal hygiene for the occassion to err any potential neighbours… I shall just make a note of that.

If I have to sit next to someone I obviously look for the most attractive gentleman. Daydreamer Lucy has been known to imagine up some kind of beautifully romantic fairytale blossoming on the aisles of the Megabus, what with being trapped in close proximity of each other for four hours, and potential drool-soiled shoulders to encounter if one of us nods off at some point. And imagine the fodder for the best man’s speech… aisles of the Megabus… to going up the aisle, if we want a bit of blue can go into the realms of ‘taking-it-up-the’. Beautiful.

Well, today’s four hours turned into an ordeal. Delivered in a package of misery with a ‘S.W.A.L.K’ from Lucifer himself. I was sat next to the window. Suddenly a rather portly lady comes and settles her sizeable booty down on the seat beside me, also encroaching on at least two of the precious inches of my Megabus space. {Must equate to at least twenty pence’s worth.}

Is my body too bootylicious for you? Yes it effing is.

But it gets better. She has a wriggly baby on her lap.

All of my experience let me know that I was quite right to be suddenly overcome with horror. I was pressed up against the glass with a baby bag set on my feet in a prison of human flesh and itchy gaudy seats. I felt like when people are sent into ‘solitary’ in war films. Well it certainly broke me. I aint no Steve McQueen. I tried to go internally Houdini to feel less claustrophobic. Worst thing was that just two minutes before realising my plight I’d just hammered some Pro Plus so there was no chance of snoozing the pain away.

I feel like I have developed as a person through this experience. I had to find joy from somewhere. It was in my treble sandwich bonanza from Boots. I do love a sandwich.

Oh and I did a little ‘lol’ with each rape field we went past. As in those yellow plants called rape. See, it does still sound funny.

It's a dangerous thing googling for rape. It's ever so pretty though.

Ten Minute Challenge…

10 May

As you have probably seen by now I have this insatiable thirst for rambling.

As I cocked up a tad yesterday by failing to post Sunday’s post on what was actually Sunday, I feel all out of proverbial whack today and I didn’t get my bee-hind into gear to post Monday’s own post. Monday shaln’t go hungry… NOT IN MY NAME.

It is now… eight minutes til midnight and the start of a squeaky clean, factory fresh day.

I will fill as much as I can in this here space in that time, probably with complete guff, and publish whatever the end result is on the last stroke of Big Ben. That sounds like saucy hijinks. I apologise now if said result is a stunted and deformed post fit only for a Victorian blogging freak show, but it’ll allow me to realign myself with the rest of Blogsville and start afresh on the morrow.

It may well end up that I have to stop mid sentence.

I was actually thinking of something along these lines this very day in fact. That old saying ‘It’s not the end of the world.’ He is bandied about somewhat, applied from situations as disperate as losing a game to just missing out on the last honeydew melon  for your Melon Medley for tonight’s  dinner party, causing you to shake your fist at Mr Green the Grocer and the rest of his happy family. It occurred to me that surely, one day, this comment will inevitably backfire.

When that flash of bright light hits, and the beginnings of the mushroom cloud begin to balloon over the horizon, and that smartarse to your side looks at you and says ‘Don’t worry, its not the end of the……’

No doubt this poor knackered cliche will never actually be able to be uttered in its entirety at the time when it can finally be said fo’ real.

I am gona get cocky and insert a video. DUCK AND COVER. Don’t worry Patty, its not the end of the world.