Marmite

Who knew that socks were a muse? It got so late this morning that Hubby decided to risk life and limb by suggesting I swap my PJs for actual clothes, and maybe comb my hair and find some earrings. That didn’t go down well because: a) I was warm and cosy, b) I wasn’t going out so why bother, c) I was busy writing a blog and d) he’s not the boss o’ me.  Having obviously got out of bed the wrong side himself, he persisted with, “Another bloody blog?”  Donations in lieu of flowers, please.

We went up to London but not to visit the Queen. Sob sob. (Third blog in five days? Something must be rotten in the state of R-land …) Four of us congregated in our flat at odd times during the afternoon because we were all coming from different directions. I was first to arrive at about 3:45pm. I had intended to be there earlier but I had a brain fart at Euston Station and, instead of walking to Euston Square to get the Tube to Farringdon, I dreamily drifted down the escalators to the Northern Line and nearly ended up at London Bridge.

I suppose I should have been more compassionate. Hubby and I were having lunch one recent afternoon and his mobile rang. He was expecting a call, having been at the opticians about an hour ago to have his eye checked out that “wasn’t quite right.” (He’s not a wordsmith). “Today at 5pm? Yes that’s fine. Thank you.” Gosh that was quick! A same-day appointment with the NHS after a same-day referral. Respect!

I recently shared a Daily Mail article on LinkedIn (here) that was written by a history Prof, something about 10 questions to ask rejoiners next time they kick-off at a dinner party. This led to me being asked to provide 10 reasons why we shouldn’t rejoin the EU. This blog title fits perfectly with its namesake film ( 10 ), a comedy (rejoining the EU) about a middle-aged man (a rejoiner) who becomes infatuated with someone (the EU) who’s only using him for her own gratification (yup).

That’s me. Literally as well as figuratively. I have Covid. And I feel sorry for myself. I fell ill while on holiday. I probably picked up the virus at Heathrow or on the plane. Filthy places. After a couple of days yomping in the Alps, I took the train to Munich to visit my Best Female Friend, who's British but lives in Germany and is still as mad as hell at me for voting Brexit. Hubby stayed in the resort, partly because he wanted to carry on langlaufing, and partly because he was still as mad as hell at me for creating a scene going through security at Heathrow ( see previous blog here ).

It’s no secret that I don’t like technology, and technology doesn’t like me. What the hell is ChatGBT? My first ever blog (per the old regime that’s now invisible) was about me being a technophobe, and it’s been downhill ever since. Take last Tuesday, for example. Hubby locked himself in the bathroom when I went to put Marmite on my toast and found that the jar was empty. My weekly shop wasn’t due for another nine days. Marmite-less toast is one of life’s oxymorons; a straw that breaks the camel’s back; a round peg in a square hole; a red rag to a blue cravat; tonic without gin. 

A number of posts from complete strangers about their or others’ mental health keep popping into my LinkedIn feed prompted, partly I should guess, by that advert for failed therapy, Harry Wales. (I’ve decided to ditch the ‘Prince’ title. He’s lucky I’m not replacing it with P---ck. Yet.) There are so many of these posts, that the ones that deserve genuine concern are drowned out by the ones that don’t do the authors any favours. Sorry, My Darlings, but if you feel the need to share such stuff with your potential employees, employers, clients and contractors, then those ‘potentials’ are going to evaporate faster than you can complain about Freddie Starr eating your hamster.

If you read the title as “The Bitch is Back”, I respect your interpretation – yes indeedy – and will explain why below. For those of you who mourned the (temporary, as it happens) demise of my blog, thank you. For those who celebrated wildly, you’d better grab another bottle to numb the pain. In the end, I had to resuscitate the blog to relieve the pressure cooker and give my hard-bitten tongue a rest, not that I bit it all the time, as some poor so-s can testify. Note the new blog address. I promised someone I’d remove all the old material from public view, and I have done. A promise is a promise for a’ that (well it is Burns Night this week). I know I also promised to stop blogging but, heck, no one’s perfect, not even me, even though my siblings nicknamed me Little Miss Perfect when we were young. Now that we’re old I still lord it over them. Much to catch up on, and it’s difficult to know where to start.  How about the choking hypocrisy of the Tory party rallying around Fishy R...