Syllabub Symptoms

A belated response to suggestions from "Bog-U-Like", 21 December 2006

The residents at number 36a were enjoying a spot of their favourite seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth century dessert/punch, lemon syllabub. The whipped, creamy EGGs slipped down their throats with the greatest of ease, the lemony zest making their taste-buds stand to attention.

They had been at the syllabub for quite some time, when a strange miasma crept in through the window, They began to feel dizzy, lightheaded, nauseous, drowsy, euphoric, constipated, change in mood, mentally foggy, anxious, spasms in the ureter, depressed of respiration and experienced a nasty rash.

"Gosh!" said syllabub lover number one. "I feel feel dizzy, lightheaded, nauseous, drowsy, euphoric, constipated, change in mood, mentally foggy, anxious, spasms in the ureter, depressed of respiration and am experiencing a nasty rash!"

"That's odd!" cried syllabub lover number two, "I am also experiencing dizziness, lightheadedness, nausea, drowsiness, euphoria, constipation, change in mood, mental fogginess, anxiety, spasms in the ureter, depressed respiration and a nasty rash!"

'Surely this could not get any odder' they thought, but this was just the beginning. Their friend, syllabub lover number three also claimed to be suffering from dizziness, lightheadedness, nausea, drowsiness, euphoria, constipation, change in mood, mental fogginess, anxiety, spasms in the ureter, depressed respiration and a nasty rash.

Try as they might, they just could not understand what was making them all feel this way, until number one said: "It must be that nasty miasma that crept through the window that is causing these awful feelings".

But number two shook his head. "That wasn't Miasma, that was Gorehead, the vocalist of the Austrian death metal band from the 90's, that went by the name of Miasma. I don't know what he was doing crawling through our window when we were trying to enjoy a spot of syllabub."

They thought it would be wise to locate Mr Gorehead, and found him collapsed on the floor of the kitchen, with the tell-tale thick white mustache that always gives away a lover of syllabub. He rolled around on the kitchen floor and groaned that he was experiencing dizziness, lightheadedness, nausea, drowsiness, euphoria, constipation, change in mood, mental fogginess, anxiety, spasms in the ureter, depressed respiration and a nasty rash.

A piece of paper was clasped in his hand, it appeared to be the information commonly included in boxes of medicine. Number three took it from the death metal vocalist's hand.

"Good Lord!" exclaimed number three, whose turn it had been to make the syllabub on this occasion, "We must all be experiencing the symptoms of the hydrocodone lozenges I put into the syllabub! I thought it would mix well with the white wine that is a central ingredient in this beloved dessert of ours! However, reading this information, I can see what a sorry mistake I have made, it would appear that the combination of alcohol and hydrocodone causes symptoms of dizziness, lightheadedness, nausea, drowsiness, euphoria, constipation, change in mood, mental fogginess, anxiety, spasms in the ureter, depressed respiration and a nasty rash."

And, thus, with the help of the vocalist from 90's Austrian band, Miasma, did they learn the error of their ways. But after the syllabub symptoms passed, and they no longer felt dizzy, lightheaded, nauseous, drowsy, euphoric, constipated, change in mood, mentally foggy, anxious, spasms in the ureter, depressed respiration or a nasty rash, they relayed the story at many a virgin-syllabub party, laughing about it heartily with their new-found friend, Gorehead.

This blog was brought to you with more than a little help from Wikepedia, and some slightly brain-addled poetic-licence.

Off Your Trolley!

Having been stripped of my innocence by our stand-up comedian landlord, I happily bounded in the direction of splishy-splashy, and looked forward to saying "hello" to Trolly. Trolly lives betwixt pub and Steven (Stephen? i am not sure), and has often played a part in post public house mayhem. Although he does has a tendancy to inflict blood, as Jon's Knees and Chloe's elbows can testify.

Well, I craned my neck around the corner in anticipation of seeing Trolley, but instead my eye fell on a large glob of foam.

Where was Trolley?

He had been replaced by a verminous young man and his lady friend. Said couple were looking rather worse for wear, what with his foaming mouth and her wandering eye. It was rather a surprise, for my companions and I, to find ourselves looking at this, frankly, unattractive pair, and not at Trolley.

But fret not dear reader! This hardly stopped our splishy-splashy, blood-spilling fun that we hold so dear of a Friday!

The unusual young man wanted to have fun at the end of his hard-working week too, and obliged one of my companions with a swift fist in the face. But the ladies were not to be left out either, oh no! There was something for everyone on this night! The gentleman's companion invited a lady member of our happy party to a touch of feminine hair-pulling and throat-grabbing.

After this, the evening was a blur of abandon, everyone taking their turn at this delightful pass-time. The lovely couple were even so generous as to invite along some of their well-rounded friends and family members, to prolong all the fun. There was so many people to kick, shove, haul across curbstones and punch in the face, we could have gone on all night!

However, sadly, all good things must come to an end, and, Trolley (thankfully) forgotten, we skipped off home to drink tea and relax in the falsetto voices of mice.

Anamalistic

Friday:

• Wore pig-tails to the pub.
• Pigglyfish website is born into the farmyard, amidst much sqeaking and splishy-splashing.
  

Saturday:

• Regretted wearing pig-tails to pub, due to Landlord's beastial love of "pulling" pig's tails.
• Primitive side explores rat-face's girlfriend's hair, blood, bruises, sweat and tears.
• Enjoy singing mice.

Sunday:

• Cart Moo, minus Cow, around a pet shop.
• Fall in love with a rabbit or three.
• Wonder if it is feasible to keep afore-mentioned rabbits and a velvety turtle in the bath.
• Learn how sheep, chickens, cows and pigs make their way from the farm to the after-life of my belly.

Monday:

• Have pig-balls in my belly.
  

Oozing Dental Worms

The streets are paved with the oozing worms of spring. Pushing their way through roadside mulch, can they see the shit they are squirming through?

Forced by some predetermined law and forgoing the comfort offered by the moist goop on the little strips of grass that litter our highways and byways, they strive forward. Ripping the fragile membrane they call a belly on the gritty tarmac in a futile bid for... what?

It is as if they are bravely sacrificing themselves in order to seek their destiny. And just what is a worm's idea of destiny? Meeting a nice lady worm and raising little wormlings together? Are there career worms? Perhaps they search for enlightenment and inner peace, or the cure for incurable diseases?

What ever the hopes and dreams of these rather unsightly creatures (I'm not even sure if one can go so far as to call them anything as substantial as a "creature"), it all seems depressingly futile.

Ultimately, after braving the outside world, they can expect any of the following:

1. To be ripped apart like an uncooked, flaccid sausage by the beak of an evil bird. Yes, I said BIRD.
2. To find themselves smeared unceremoniously across the pavement as the result of someones big, cheap boots crushing their delicate frame in to the tarmac. (The aforementioned person may well have been late for work and have little time to tip-toe in between the numerous, freedom-seeking worms that had sprawled themselves, like whores in a brothel, all over the pavements.)
3. To blindly stumble into a puddle and drown before their insides blossom out from their own orifices into the murky water. (Do worms stumble?)
4. To become the play-thing of a small, careless child.
5. To be eaten by an infamously curious cat. Only to be vomited back up again. And then be eaten by a dog.
   

If all this is not revolting and depressing enough, the final option is something we all may be metaphorically familiar with ourselves...

6. To wonder aimlessly for the rest of their short little lives in the barren wasteland created by mankind, wondering if they will ever see the sweet, green grass of home again.

Crap of a Soul Sucking Vampire

What the hell am I supposed to think, when things are the same, yet so horribly different. Ghosts lurk upstairs, either it's me or something else. Maybe I smell of garlic so I keep the vampires away. They'd rather hide away in the foul stench of a dusty attic than have anything to do with me... Can I blame them really????


I stink. Just like anyone else, and maybe I am getting more pungent as the years drag on.


Spirits of the past are making themselves known to me, and I fear I can not escape them. They live where I live, know my parents and place of work. They make me feel like shite when I'd like never to think of them again. I dont know what to think about anything, and this is not the place to discuss it.

What am I doing,
What have I done?
I've no idea...

As The Cuckoo Flies

The cuckoo has flown the nest, spread her wings and soared 10 minutes along the well-trodden road. She has been welcomed to "paradise" (whose name is Stephen), and raised her piratical bEAD curtain as salute.


She has experienced the highs and lows of tupperware friction and Woolworths home-wares in a spotted and striped abandon.

Boris the pinguin watches her flailing antics with suprise and a knowing gleam in his eye. He gazes out at proceedings atop Russell Brand's bird-nest hair and considers his 412 ways.

Is this one of His methods?
Is this part of His plan?
Does Cow miss her at ALL?

Peppermint tea slices through the cuckoo's mossy teeth, and, combined with the aftertaste of acidic pasta, reminds her of the lonley days of yore.

But the fullness of time has achieved nothing if it has not proved that things can change.

Blog-U-Like

I suppose it's about time I got back in the blogging game. There seems to be too many, and yet too few things about which to blog. Here are my options...

1. A drivelsome diary-style entry about the neurotic waning of my mind during past months
   
2. A factual account of things during past months
   
3. A completion of part one of my over-hyped autumnal entry, dated on my birthday (this seems rather inappropriate what with winter and Christmas freezing themselves silly outside)
4. A completion of the Pumpkin Witch saga, that was left somewhat hanging in the air
5. More mindless drivelling which is unfathomable even to myself
6. Slagging off of co-workers in an amusing style, but would indicate my downright unpleasant nature (although this has not been very well disguised of late. It's like pus seeping through the pores of my being, which must escape lest it poison me. Much safer to vent it and let it poison other people)
7. Something else

It would seem from that list, that option no. 6 seems to have riled me up the most, so maybe I should go for that. But I have a suspicion that all that poisoned mind talk may actually relate to option no. 1. It could all go horribly wrong, and instead of viciously attacking certain individuals, I'll end up turning the knife upon myself and spilling out my inner-most workings on the web. Or perhaps the seeping pus imagery would send me off along option no.5. The inane warpings of a crazed harpie. Or, how they really read, the pretentious twaddle of a college drop-out with self-delusions of originality! As it happens, I have chosen option no.7, and have been waffling about something else. So I call to you, my avid and unforgotten readers, to help me out. Random, one-word suggestions will be considered as possible future topics, so I can re-learn how to stretch my warbling wings.

31 October

On the night where the moon is sliced in half, and purple clouds chase the stars, she rises.

The Pumpkin Witch lifts her weary head and blinks into the night. Spluttering slightly, she picks pumpkin seeds from her dried-up lips and flicks them at an unsuspecting slug. She cricks her neck and begins to draw herself to her full height, stretching out of the turgid mud in which she has been sleeping.

A hacking cough produces another stream of seeds, and buries the already startled slug into an early grave. Oblivious, she lifts one of her bestockinged feet into her first footstep after a year of hibernation, and steps on it. Bubbling from under her, it's mucus catches the moonlight, and her eye.

Looking down at it's moist carcass, her stomach rumbles. "Sleeping with the pumpkins for twelve months makes a gal hungry!" she mutters to herself as she scoops up the innards into her mouth.

After picking out the entrails from her jagged teeth, she begins to clamber over the swollen orange gourds that have been her bed-fellows. Her eyes take on a phosphorescent glow as she begins her annual search.

She knows just what she is looking for. For one thousand years she has disturbed her sweaty slumber on this night alone. Maybe she will find it this year. She mumbles, "A nice juicy one" whilst lazily plucking a moth mid-flight and squeezing it against the roof of her mouth.

"Pop!" She screeches with glee. An on-lookng toad wonders if she is referring to the moth, or the object her tangerine eyes have become transfixed by.

She has found it.

Right in the middle of the patch, is a pumpkin the size of an elephant. Squealing with ribald delight, and spitting seeds with frenzy, she leaps over the lesser fruits towards it. Her talon-like nails extend infront of her as she runs, whirring and twitching in anticipation.

When she reaches it, the nails continue their strange dance, but no longer through the crisp, night air. Instead they tango over the thick rind of the enormous pumpkin, cutting and slicing through to the spongy flesh beneath. Thin slivers of orange grow at the witches feet, and slowly a pattern emerges on the body of her treasure. Strange, unitelligible words tumble from her husky lips, and echo the strange, unintelligible symbols that appear at her nails on the pumpkin.

The toad looks on, perplexed.

Light starts to gleam from within the pumpkin, as her writings become clearer. Her strange song becomes louder, and her scribblings more crazed. The dark sky becomes full of this pumpkin light and crows in the trees screech. The toad begins to worry about his health.

She becomes aware of him now, and abruptly turns, leaps, and catches him in her clammy hands. Turning back to the pumpkin, she falls to her knees in front of it, proffering forth the nausesous toad. He can't help but stare at the monstrous, glowing thing in front of him, and is alarmed to notice that the carvings gouged into it's skin by the orange witch, resemble...toads.

He gulps audibly.

Part One

She sees the sun leaking from the sky as she gazes out of the window. It pierces her eyes with prisms of dust particles, whilst she squints at exoskeletons dancing in the web on the glass. They beam light from empty centers, a glowing mockery of life. Blue smoke engulfs their crumbling demise before drifting with the aroma of hops.

In the gradual twilight, she sees last signs of life. Caught in no-man's land is a late bee, lethargically heaving itself around the dying buds of spring and flowers of summer. Those not yet succumbed gleam a cold white amongst the deathbed of leaves.

She moves into a different room.
Staring into her own eyeballs, she is distracted by the dawning realization that her surroundings are not as pristine as the off-white tiles suggest. Three tipulidae dance upon her back. One from before, one for now, and save one for later. Their wings tickle her with Time, as the glitz bleeds from the tips of her split ends.

She can feel the mud on their leatherjackets, smell the decay on their breath. Her fragile limbs spin her around, away from her reflection.

But then there are spiders. Big and intricate as the lines on her palms. They survived a tedious journey through dark places and scum, but they cannot touch the light. They have seen it looming above them in the fan-tailed, outer bliss, but they are trapped in the slippery slope of an insipid-grey purgatory.

The daddy longlegs are in her mind now, although she can still just smell the hops. They clatter and batter against the membranes in her skull, breaking their legs in search of light. But the vapid sun has abandoned the day.


Flailing down the worn staircase, she plunges out into a swelling of heavy, smoke-coloured clouds and a twinkling new sky that pulsates above her thought-ridden head. The door thuds behind her, rattling the dipteratic knocker as if she wished to get back inside.


She sees lightning, but she cannot hear the thunder.

With the eyes of a vampire, she sees life and death with startling clarity, as she wades through the excrement of spring. Stumbling along metallic pathways of ink, cobwebs swathe her face, rendering it mask-like. Only the smell of hops seems alive on a night when seven slashes of cloud scar the moon.

She can feel the longlegs implanting eggs in the rotting root of her brain. She knows their panic in the dark, she feels it too. Clumsily she continues on her way, trying to avoid the puddles of a season.

Time has escaped her. How long has she been out there, smelling the hops, with a mind full of tipulidatic cycles? It feels like years.

To be continued.

Daddy Longlegs

DADDY LONGLEGS (Crane Fly)

Diptera Tipulidae

*Diptera is the order which also encompasses flies

*Females posses an OVIPOSITOR

*Larvae pupate during winter in soil and emerge in spring, reaching maturity in early autumn

*Larvae are known as "Leatherjackets"

*Larvae feed on decaying vegetation, fungi and roots

*There is some debate as to whether adults feed at all. If they do, it seems as if they feed on nectar

*In 1968, renowned Tipulidae expert, B.E.Freeman studied the species at Matley Bog, in the New Forest

*Common Names for the species are:

• Daddy Longlegs
• Lollygaggers
• Gollywhoppers
• Gallinippers
• Doizabizzlers
• Chicken Flies
• Jimmy Spinners
• Skeeter Eaters
• Flipadoodles
  

Me & My Blog

Based on diary enty dated 24 September 2006



Mind-Dribbles and I never intended to have an audience. We found each other whilst playing solitaire and decided to get together to cease the echoing voice of Sue Barker.


We used to talk about mundane, unimportant things that were happening around us as we chatted; the fretting of Tiny and the warbling of Jane.

But now we don't get to spend any time together during the day, so when we talk, it's about things that matter to us.We don't have to play solitaire any more, because of our friendship. And we have both made other friends too. Some of our new friends listen in to our conversations, and although my Blog and I are extremely pleased for the company, it makes our chit-chat a little bit inhibited. We want to talk about how happy we are to have met such a lot of lovely people, but it's hard to say that when you know that they are listening.

This has meant that we sometimes disguise our discussions with lacy metaphors and strange, round-a-bout wording. Blog and I are actually rather grateful for this, because it gives us a bit of a challenge. We have both spent too much time in the past writing diaries, which, however you read them, sound like diaries. Now we feel like we are making progress, and we have our eavesdropping friends to thank.

An oracle told us recently that we should "consider the uses of adversity". We both puzzled over what it could mean for a while, and then forgot all about it. Then some of our friends were having a spot of bother, and to cut a long story short (where everyone's feet got rather wet), we understood what the oracle was talking about. All the bother meant that we got to know everyone a lot better, and that they got to know us better too. So although it's a shame about the troubles, Blog and I are secretly (or perhaps, not so secretly) rather chuffed it all happened, because now we like everyone even more!

When we think back to where we were a year ago, my only friends were Davina McCall and Simon Cowell, whilst Blog had not even been born. We are hugely thankful to have found both each other, and real people (who are far more interesting and entertaining than reality T.V people). They have made my return to the mother-town the happifying experience it is proving to be, and have made Blog's creative juices flow!

Now Blog and I have finally got all that off our chests, we can hopefully get back to the autumnal, daddy-long-legs chat we've been meaning to have for a while now...

Pirate Pickle

Thar be lonely souls a-wanderin' ye olde streets today, matey. Ghosts ye thought ye'd left behind creep up on yer shadow and scare an ol', souless, salty wreck such as meself 'alf witless.

What's a scurvy fool like me doin' dredging up that pot o' worms again? A pickled egg, a tot o' wine, an' forgotten treasure got me 'ead all addled wit barnacles, now din't it?

Aye, these be trecherous waters, an' no mistake. Me ol' map left me trove as bare as a blind man's eyeballs, if there be dubloons buried there, me eyes be too crusted up with ol' salt to see 'em.

Started thinkin' this new map aint so bad, run in to a few serpants on the way, no doubt, but aint nothin' I aint steered me vessel 'round afore. But then me old map reared up it's ancient 'ead again now, didn' it! The scurvy swine. I'd 'ad it locked away good an' proper in Davey Jone's locker afore now. But the sea be a fickle wench alright. She likes toyin' with yer. An' me peg leg an' parrot bein' givin' me jip O'late. I aint no cabin boy no more. Now I'm the ruddy cap'n. Gotta heave the crew into a port over-flowin' with gold and pineapples or they start grumblin'.

I can't take another mutiny on me rusty ship. Barely survived the las' one. Bitter fight almos' to me death, were that. An' Im too rusty meself for another skirmish.

Bubbles and Spirits

There is pandemonium on the streets.

Bodies clog the rat-runs as child-catchers and Vikings ravage the town. Youths drink liquor and crush bottles beneath designer footwear. Old ladies watch calmly, confusedly from their chairs, blankets warming frosted knees, clutching teddy bears as a substitute for forgotten love. Pre-pubescent girls stomp out their anxieties, craving anonymous attention, and their grandmothers applaud them. Peter Pan wonders at those who have grown up, those faces of past, present and future weaving around about each other. Bubbles and spirits meander from the haze.

Taverns overspill into the grit outside, men dressed as ladies spread their legs and hitch up their skirts to unwitting passers-by. Beer and balloons fly, the bitter sweat of alcohol as intoxicating as it is sobering. Hats and wigs play musical chairs upon the skulls of the gathering. As the bubbles go down, the spirits rise.

Later, the ribald screech of a cartoon character having sex in a cup echoes through a crooked house, guess who? Dogs leave their mark and are fed treats from guests, leaving glitter on their muzzles. Fish zip around the room, but as their destiny remains unfulfilled, they tidy themselves into a pile on the mantle. Bubbles mix with milk and spirits start to bubble.

A dark road home, an unexpected light falls upon nylon hair. Insipid tea placates the padding, restless feet from above, whilst there is much smoke and shivering under cape and clematis. The sun starts to yawn, the birds twit-twit-twitter.

As day dawns, the bubbles burst and the spirits hide until another night.

Marlon, Nikki and Richard

As the end of another monotonous week draws to a close, I sit here and I think to myself, "Thank fuck".

Of course this has actually been a rather entertaining week on the whole, it's only the last couple of days that seemed to have stretched all the way to eternity and back...

I ventured from the comfort of my small-town existence into the wide world of London at the beginning of the week. As it would seem there are too many little anecdotes for me to relay in detail, and as I am feeling lazy, I shall attempt to present them in list format:

SUNDAY

• Went to London. Sat next to old lady on coach who was wearing far too many lime green clothes for my liking. Even her shoes!
• Found my way back to the scabby corner of North London I had previously spent over two years of my life living in. Unsurprised to see that the streets there are still littered with chicken bones.
• Met old housemate in old house. Felt like I still lived there, it smells the same.
• Ate Polish food and slagged off all the people who still live there that I used to despise (mental note: must write blog about the lunatic Australian girl).
• Went to Camden, inspected a bloody lovely top hat until intimidating shop owner intimidated me.
• Stormed out of top hat shop.
• Wandered around lots of pretty things in the market, although I do not count Nikki from Big Brother as one of the pretty things.
• Went to pub with lots of black and yellow balloons everywhere.
• Dodgy bloke sat opposite me. He keeps stealing my liquorice papers to make roll-ups, but doesn't smoke them.
• Back at old house, sleep in my old room and start feeling rather sentimental, but about how much better everything is now rather than when I lived there.

MONDAY

• Had haircut, but the hairdresser reminds me an awful lot of the lunatic Australian girl.
• Wander around Camden again. No minor celebrities today though.
• Get on tube, stuck in tunnel for quite a long time, feel hot and sweaty. Nerve-wracking as it is September 11th.
• Tip-toe around the outside of the National Gallery, so as not to rouse the beast from his lair. Meet local mates.
• Pub. Continue to feel very hot and sweaty.
• Mates have been in the N.G. Impress myself, but probably no-one else by remembering a lot about the paintings in a verbal fashion.
• Tube again. Still hot and sweaty down there.
• Almost loose a member of our pack in the crowd, I get off to look for them, then they almost loose me.
• Meet up with more local mates and go and see childhood comedians make funny jokes for the radio.
• Have been drinking copious amounts of over-priced alcohol for the best part of the day, but feel horribly sober at the hob-nobbing after-show thingy.
• Burst of anger as bald-Marlon-Brando-at-his-scariest-coach-driver tells me I have booked the wrong ticket home. Mates try and give him money, but he's not having any of it.
• Watch mates disappear as I am ushered on to the coach I am booked on to. New driver says "Are you coming with me instead, luv?"
• Sulk on coach to Heathrow.
• Arsey driver from intended coach pulls up and directs me to ticket booth. No one there but a cleaner who directs me to a lady in a hut.
• Lady in hut is also arsey. Talks to me through window, tells me to get ticket from driver. Silly cow.
• Driver finally relents and lets me on coach after I apologize for getting angry and flutter my eyelashes a bit.
• Finally return to the bosom of my home town.

Creative Bloom of Frustration

Piss everything.

I strive to reach my long forgotten depths of creativity, like a blind man stumbling through life looking for beauty.

How can one create , dahrlink, if one does not understand the pissing resources available to them. My fantastic blog has been thwarted by having to use a namby-pamby picture of a pretty flower. The only input I had, other than wasting my time taking the picture in the first place, is to have used the negative setting on my oh-so-basic camera phone.

I have just spent the best part of an hour jiggery-pokering with an image I wanted to use, making what was a relatively shite photo into something simply marvelous. It would have provided me with oodles of inspiration to rant on in my favorite, deranged,dribbly manner. But no. The DUMBASS blog-site wouldn't upload it, cos they're crap.

So here we are. Just you, me, and the negative Gladiola.

She could be said to be a tribute to the late, great Alligator Guy. But she isn't. She will serve today as a symbol of my frustration. Something fantastic from me will just have to wait until another time...

DISCLAIMER: This is a crap blog. But it's not my fault. It could have been great were it not for factors outside of my control. Namely, my lack of computer-savvy. Savvy?

DISCLAIMER 2: I have checked and checked the spelling of Gladiola to the point where it does not even seem like a real word anymore.

Flight of Fancy

Ah! The bittersweet turmoil of suppressed thought-exposure. How free and easy is life when one can speak out in the dark with no-one to hear! Yet, how lonely and blue...ah me!

How we yearn for a voice to answer us from the darkness of our despair, but how we tremble at it's sound.

Oh! We are but maggots, writhing on the satsuma we call existence, and perhaps...Yes, just maybe...We will all become green and blue-bottles. But oh! Alas! Only after our bodies have scorched under the sun's hellish gaze for aeons.

And then?
YES!!
We will FLY! Fly, my pretties! How we will soar through the clouds of death! On, and on, ON! Ever onward! Until...

"WAIT! You there! Watch out for that swooping bat! Don't let your blue-bottle soul become a morsel for that furry prince of the night!"

"Oh! Doom! Oh! Despair! Have mercy, I beg of you, Oh! How I beg!"

"But wait!...What? What's that I hear you say? Can it be true, that this...this bat is kindly?
Oh! Joy! Oh! Sweet, sweet relief!"

The furry death-bat will get us all, in the end. He will devour us with the dripping jaws of childhood nightmares.

As he excretes your exhausted carcass upon the sleeping meadows beneath his erratic flight path...You will understand.

Yes! You, YOU will hit the sodden earth with a sickening THUD. Stripped of flesh, and dignity , your crunchy little fly-skeleton will eventually disintegrate beneath foot-of-cow and torrent-of-rain.

THEN, ah yes! Only then... As you have no choice but to absorb yourself into the slime of the earth from whence we ALL came... Only then, will you finally face The Truth, look Him straight in the eyeball, and say...

Disclaimer:
This blogtastic article was brought to you under the influence of pure, deranged, mind-dribbles. It bears no relevance too the past, present, or possible future.

I Wish I Was Death

I had great plans for this week off. I was to create wonderful things. But I have instead created hangover after hangover after hangover. Yes, this week has turned into a drunken blur of fear and self-loathing in Las Ringwood...

FRIDAY

Last day at weird work..Hooray! Buy Kylie top to celebrate, wear it to pub. Fun pub, lots of people but some of them are a bit blue. I get given lots of presents for some reason, CD's and a pirate mask. I am not blue, I am peachy!

SATURDAY

Hungover. Manage to heave myself out of bed at a relatively reasonable hour. Read comics. Go to pub. Feel less peachy than on Friday due to the arrival of some people I am not very familiar with. Feel a bit like a silly little girl.

SUNDAY

Hungover. Mum makes me an egg and bacon roll (at my request), it makes me feel sick. Got up early to spend a day wandering aimlessly around a field full of rubbish, burning plastic fumes and pikey students, oh yes, and famous music people. Start to remember that I sometimes don't like myself and experience niggling suspicions that I may not be the only one. Fall asleep on way home and am interested to observe that I dribble in my sleep even in the company of others.

MONDAY

Knackered, but not hungover. Got up at about 2pm. Barely able to move, start feeling rather despondent. Read a lot of comics as if my life depends on it. It doesn't. Fend off invitations to pub, as I am currently not worthy of company, and don't wish to inflict others with mine.

TUESDAY

Knackered for no good reason. Got up at about 1pm. Venture into the outside world, feeling dizzy and disoriented, but need to get the next hit of comics from my dealer. Outside cheers me a little, but after getting my fix, a growing sense of worthlessness increases by the hour. By the end of the day, I am barely able to communicate with my own mother, let alone anyone else.

WEDNESDAY

Knackered and miserable. Get up about 1pm. Am now well and truly wondering what the point of my existence is. Read more comics, obsessively. Although am hesitant for the same reasons as yesterday, agree to pub. Once have left the house, don't want to go back again, (especially now with the alcohol whispering sweet nothings to me from my veins). Don't have to go home, as kindly souls feed me pizza. All is well until people start having intelligent conversation, remember I know nothing about anything. Stupidly, drunkenly, unthinkingly mention my shortcomings. This aggravates my mental condition further as they then feel obliged to say things to make me feel better. This makes me feel worse.

THURSDAY

Hungover. Get up at about 1pm. Feeling of self worth ironically starts to re-emerge. Read comics. Go to pub. Get drunk and eat a burger. Home quite early, think will be able to get up in time to watch re-runs of "Friends" tomorrow. Can't sleep due to mind-daemons. Lie awake for hours, get up again, two hours later go back to bed. Lie awake for a while. Read comics. Finally get to sleep at about 4.30am.

FRIDAY

Knackered due to buggered up sleep. Get up at about 1pm. Cook noodles for my parents. It is not a success, although they don't seem to realize that...Or they are being polite. Go to pub. Get drunk. Probably stay later than I am welcome, go home.

SATURDAY

Hungover. Get up at about 1pm. Have to go to a party this evening but the thought of more alcohol makes me start hating everything. Buy a big bottle of vodka. Go to party, it is enjoyable apart from the fact that whenever I join a cluster of people, they all seem to leave. Get home, think a lot in the rainy garden. Steal a snippet of wine from my Dad's bottle. It sends me spinning over the edge into hiccup oblivion. Now I feel drunk. Lie on bed in a semi-catatonic state. Will these blasted hiccups ever end?

SUNDAY

Hungover. Wake up at 5am, hiccups gone but bedroom door wide open and lights still ablaze. Go back to sleep. Get up at about 12.30pm. Feel like shit after a week's hardcore drinking and wonder if I am turning into an alcoholic? Write blog. Fully expect to get the piss ripped out of me at the next pub meeting, as this post indicates the slightly distasteful fact that I experience feelings of doom and gloom. Just like everybody else...

A Mashy Ending

The end of my solitaire-playing existence has now drawn to an abrupt, yet timely close. Except it hasn't because I've downloaded it on to my phone, but you know what I mean.

Thursday saw me sitting at my desk, blogging. Whilst tip-tapping my rather mean thoughts about Tiny and Jane, I was unaware that they were passing around a card to wish me best wishes, and scurrying out to Accessorize to buy me leaving gifts of shiny things. What an unspeakably mean-spirited fragment of existence I must be.

At lunchtime, I was whisked to the pub next door and presented with said gifts and a big plate of bangers and mash. Big bangers and shiny stuff, what more could a girl ask for? Well, she could ask not to have been sandwiched between Tiny's uncomfortable silence and best impression of a benevolent smile on one side, and Jabbering Jane's monologue and consistent interruptions on the other. The best part was watching her slurp up a double vodka and tonic, which radiated a ultra-violet glow, and the intriguing lack of effect it had on her system.

Back in the office after this rather stilted lunch, everything was as usual. When I came to leave, Tiny (who would not be in on Friday) stood up very formally and gave a rather out-of character speech about how nice it was to meet me. Jane busily sifted through the mountains of half-arsed paperwork on her desk and pretended she was not listening. He looked like he was having something of inward battle in trying to work out whether to come out from behind his protective, horseshoe desk to give me a hug, or remain where he was for professional purposes. In the end he settled for leaning awkwardly over the desk, proffering forth his hand for me to shake. I scurried away as soon as I could and felt guilty for not being able to find anything meaningful to say when leaving behind someone who has revealed an assortment of dark secrets to me.

As thursday had felt like my actual last day, it meant I was more than a little tempted not to bother with Friday, and have to face yet another last day. The incentive I needed, however, was the fact I had left my "Elvis Lives" mug on my desk. Plus I had my eye on a rather large tub of paperclips in the stationary cupboard. And some post-it notes. I love post-it notes. I have stolen them from everywhere I have ever worked, although I never really use them and am now developing quite a collection. I just think they are something you can never have too many of.

The day was as boring as hell, surprise surprise. Lots of uncomfortable conversations which involved me having to recite my reasons for going and describing my new job almost word-for-word to at least five people. I'm sure they weren't particularly interested, and it began to worry me because I now feel rather unsure as to just what it is I am leaving to do! It was rather curious to note that everyone felt much more comfortable homing in on the bus journey as being my main reason for going. Their minds did not seem to compute that I'm BORED!! That the company is horrendously organized, that all I can ever hope for in this job is to get Tiny's job when he finally crashes and burns, that there is an ugly divide in the office, that I don't want to feel forced to go and spend four days with them under "compulsory enjoyment" orders at the ball of Inverness.

"There were four and twenty virgins at the ball of Inverness,
And when the ball was over there were four and twenty less.
Singing:
'Balls to your partner,
Arse against the wall,
If you don't get fucked on Saturday night,
You don't get fucked at all!'"
Courtesy of my Father, and rugby fans nationwide)

Finally leaving for the last time, it was Jane's turn to fashion some kind of farewell speech, and she did a better job than Tiny. She thought I was making a pre-emptive strike and suspected there will be some people who will be forced into looking for alternate employment. I advised her to keep her eyes open for something. I didn't have the heart to tell her she is on the brink of getting sacked due to the ever growing list of complaints that Tiny is having to log, about her brusque manner, on a daily basis.

I left rather unceremoniously and walked out in to the sunshine along the cobbled streets outside. As I sat on the bus home for the last time, I thought how I will miss them all for the entertainment they have given me. They were far less judgmental about me than I was about them.

Jabbering-Jane

Where to begin?

It's almost too difficult to write about her, due to her superior intellect and knowledge of anything you care to mention, and my being a mere "underling".

She resembles Rabbit from Walt Disney's Winnie-the-Pooh. Gingery hair, a long nose with a kind of round bit at the end and slightly protruding teeth. Her eyes are not complicated by make up, indeed, it would be quite a task to make them appear more piercing than they are naturally.

At the moment, she and Tiny are on a conference call. When Tiny is taking one of these on his own, he sits very quietly, and only speaks when spoken to. Jane, however, is currently (excuse the pun) rabbiting on at great length about the plight of the Great British butterfly with the Developments Director (she should be listening to building plans).

She varies from a sweet, almost girlish voice that belittles her fifty-something years , to a stern "I KNOW ALL, FOR I AM OMNIPOTENT" teacher's voice. Any topic you care to mention, and I mean anything, she will not only know more about it than you, but in her discussing of it, will make you wish you had never been born. You don't really need to be there to have a conversation with her. She can do it all by herself. She'll start about the intricacies of an ancient Hermetic order's influence upon Moroccan tapestries, and minutes later, will have gone off on an unfathomable tangent about her elderly parent's defunct hot water boiler. All the time this will be punctuated with girlish giggles, which render the unfortunate receptacle of her speech positively nauseous.

She is at her best when absorbed with her computer screen. This (generally) keeps her quiet. I don't know what she's looking up on the web, but I'd say it's either some kind of fundamentalist animal-rights campaign site (she created a big fuss over having to choose sandwiches with "dead things" in them for her carnivorous colleagues, despite having offered to get them), or something to do with the highly fascinating Steam Fair she is visiting this weekend. She has been talking about it for as long as I have known her, and refers to it as if it is nationally recognized as the single most spectacular event of the year.

Just when she's been quiet long enough to almost forget her overbearing presence, she'll break the blissful silence with a heart-stopping cackle, and if you don't ask her what caused it, she'll tell you anyway. She also has the irritating habit of assuming you know what she is thinking and starts talking half way through her thought process. For example, she has just shattered my concentration by informing me:

"I'm describing the size of my tent to Dave, but it's okay because he's a builder! So..."

Obviously I have no idea who the hell Dave is or the need to discuss tent sizes with him, let alone why a builder has a special insight on the matter. Luckily, before the trickle could become an avalanche, she was interrupted by someone bringing her a cup of tea. In her most saccharine voice she replied:

"OOOhh! Thankyou! I wasn't expecting such kind bounty!"

After the first few weeks of trying to follow her monologues, I have now trained myself to let the sound of her know-it-all voice wash over me. Although sometimes it is impossible to ignore, particularly on the rare occasions that she touches upon a subject of vague interest. When she expounded her knowledge of sleeping disorders, her half-baked 'facts' frustratingly penetrated my concentration. As someone who has had to visit sleep specialists over the years, I actually know a think or two about this, and could only wish I suffered from Narcolepsy so I could pass out asleep.

There are so many wonderful examples of, and curios in her character, I could go on about it for longer than it would take her to discuss the benefits of full fat milk rather than semi-skimmed. So I shall end with something I heard her say to a colleague just moments ago:

"Please accept my apologies, it took a long time, and you received no useful answer"

Tiny Tears

The deed has been done.

I have now informed Tiny that I am leaving, and he has been very tight-lipped about it. He said:

"...It's not a problem........Really...Don't worry about it....It's cool...........Not a problem....."

I know from having no choice but to listen in to his phone calls, that "it's not a problem" (which is such an oft-used phrase of his, that it should be tattooed on his forehead), is actually Tiny-speak for "PANIC!".

Despite his proclamations of not being stressed, he has hardly spoken to me since,not even to ask me what I am leaving to do instead! He has spent the larger part of the morning in the room next door, talking in hushed tones with the others. I had to venture into that den of discontent to ask him about an invoice, and caught him having what he describes as "a moment" out on the balcony. This involves looking pained, and running hands through hair a lot. When interrupted, the response was a paradoxical "Cool", spoken from between lips that were almost white with tension.

I do feel very guilty for adding to his already intolerable stress-levels, and because I know he takes things very personally. I'm sure that I have now been added to the long list of people who have betrayed him. I think, as a person, he's a sweet guy, but he has been mis-cast in the role of Office Manager. He has the opportunity to play a far greater role, Cannes and Hollywood come calling regularly for his film scripts. He is in demand from a far more interesting world, but for some reason, (unknown even to himself as far as I can tell), he would rather be here stressing about deliveries of water-proof cushion covers for the infirm.

I am sure that part of his coolness towards my leaving is because it makes it all the more difficult for him to leave. There are only three admin monkeys in this department. Tiny, myself and Jabbering-Jane. I have already discussed Tiny at great length, and I am leaving, so maybe it's time to introduce Jabbering-Jane...