Have I told you that I've moved on to another blog? 

I needed to start a new journal. Virtual or not.

Happy birthday, Charlie.

Today, my little star , you would have been two.

Today, I would have gone through two years of  sleepless nights, aching arms from endless jigging and extreme joy of having you in my life.

Today you might have been able to tell me what you would have liked to do on your birthday. I have learned to bake now, Charlie. I would have baked a massive pink monstrosity of a cake covered in marshmallows and strawberry jam and watched you go mental with sugar rush.

Today, I am reminded of how incomplete my life is.

I have missed you so, so much.

I don't need to breathe.

A few weeks ago I went out and got myself Control Pants. To be honest I did not even set out to get myself the pants. It was in a charity store still in its original package. For 50p. Because I am not even dedicated enough to go and get the pants at its original price which might have been £20. In a minute I will try and explain why the pants might have ended up in the charity store.

Control Pants, as in Underwear to those of us in UK, not shorts for those of you outside. Hint: Yanks. At this point of time when we are getting Siberian winds and I have mates posting about moving their clocks forward for Spring, I want to be a Yank. Let them English twats talk shit about me. I am a Yank and One Direction is made up of musical prodigies instead of a bunch of young, annoying twats.

I digress. My Control Pants are to be worn on the inside and will never see the light of day. It will make its journey after being plastered to my arse straight into the washer and then it will be dried Indoors on top of the bedroom radiator. It will not even be seeing any other toilet other than my own because there is no way I am battling to stick it back on when I am in a foreign place while at the same time worrying about my own mortality. You see, in my own bathroom I know which corners to avoid and how to position myself so that I don't take a wall out and end up in the living room covered in rubble with pants halfway up my thighs.

When I first took the pants out of package I laughed. It was a weird laugh. Bordering on physical and psychological anguish kind of laugh. It looked like bicycle shorts for 6 year old girls. No wonder it went straight to Goodwill. If I were to stick that in the bin for things that will be given away it will be for Illwill. I couldn't even bring myself to look at that thing outside the package so let's see some tight, insecure, fat fucker try and squeeze into it.

If you were going to tell me that I just need to watch my diet and do some exercises, you can kill yourself. I am fucking lazy and that is why I subject myself to such torture.

A tip for those who secretly owns such a pair of pants. Don't stick in on after a bath or a shower. It is like Velcro on damp skin. If it slides on easily without you breaking out in sweat and hives, it is too big and it will do fuck all.

I will come clean now and say it was not good luck that the pants were in my size. It was not. I am a size 16 and the pants were a size 8. My thighs were bigger than the waistband. But this is like I said, Lycra. 

I made it happen. I plastered in on. I am now wearing pre-pregnancy size jeans. It doesn't matter that I cannot breathe. I don't need to. I just need to suck it in and smile. As I scrub the bathroom floors. In my new jeans. Because I don't go out much. Which is a good thing really because all that squeezing of internal organs makes me want to pee a lot and since I am on the bathroom floor, scrubbing, I just have to get up, pee and re-battle to pull the fucking pants back up.

Fancy Tickler hasn't noticed. I asked. He said No, you don't look any slimmer. Because he is an honest bloke with a death wish like that. 

Mummy In Captivity

I am a Stuck At Home Mum. I am held indoors against my will. If it is up to me I would rather be in Central London licking the windows of Harrods and try to make sense of the music churned out by the abominations that are Nicki Minaj and Lady Gaga.

I am a Mummy In Captivity because my House Pride and Need For Control have morphed into this massive monster with bad hair and lopsided tits.

It is not my desire to wear the many pretty tops I have acquired during my trips into the outside world whilst scrubbing the limescale out of the toilet bowl. It is not my desire to wear my expensive, organic make-up as I attack pots and pans with steel wool. I did not do my hair just to go on a mad hunt for The Other Fucking Sock. My Control Pants are going to break my ribs into smithereens if I have to bend down one more time to pick shit up off the floor that other people are choosing to not take notice off. One of these days someone else can trip over said thing and slam their faces on the wall and hopefully Die.

The Fancy Tickler, He Who Tickles My Fancy, has a teenage son who lives with us. Teenage Son, like all teenage boys are, is The Vortex Of Misery. He is too young to be left on his own yet old enough to create a mess of epic proportions. It is truly a superpower on its own, to be able to make a space look like the back end of the Bowels of Tartarus. One minute the kitchen is gleaming, the next it looks like a troll just shat all over the sink and deposited a mountain of dirty dishes with cereal welded to the bottom of each and every fucking bowl.

I am stuck at home because not being stuck at home would mean that the whole brood would be released into the wild that is the Outside World. That would mean having to lug around a baby bag that in shade Hideous that is jam-packed with anything and everything. It would also mean a moaning baby that might decide he might start to teeth and therefore be in extreme infant agony. Add to that, an impatient Fancy Tickler who is no longer impressed with my feminine whims that is sniffing every bottle of shampoo on sale or rubbing every soft-looking material on the back of my hands. If the Vortex of Misery is left at home then Fancy Tickler would get extra antsy. What if he torches the flat? What if he runs out of food to stuff his face with in our absence? Oh the horror. If the Vortex comes with then I have to put up with incessant teeth sucking. Everything bores him. It is too cold. It is boiling. He is starving. He is too full up he is bursting at the seams. Some days I picture a knuckle duster. No teeth sucking when there is no more teeth.

I would rather be held in captivity.

It is no wonder sometimes I run into other Mums on their own in Boots and we end up doing the same thing. Just staring at a bottle of shampoo for longer than is necessary. Our stolen moments with toiletries. Taking our own sweet time and being as fickle-minded as we pleased. We may have given up our freedom to pee without an audience but at least we can still have great-smelling hair. Even if it reeks slightly of Eau du Bebe Vomit.

Parenting 101

I would not call what I am doing with The Human Child parenting, to be honest. What it feels like most of the time is Amusing The Child.

I have since learnt to pull incredibly stupid, hideous faces whilst having dinner just so that he will stay amused and not moan incessantly, which will result in Shit Dinnertime followed by Indigestion. Dinner has since become a somewhat uncivilised and borderline barbaric affair where I have to make loud gobbly noises and sometimes chew with my mouth open so that he can laugh at the contents of my mouth.

It is common knowledge that little human children love it when you hurt yourself. The Human Child giggles when I feign injury and he also seems to really like it when I pretend to gasp for air. This will not go well when one day shit happens and I am dying of an asthma attack. I don't know if I should encourage him enjoying it when people have hurt themselves. I mean, he giggles watching Dexter and American Horror Story. Spawn of Satan, are you about to dethrone your Mother? I do wonder.

He loves the dark. There were a few times when I was watching American Horror Story in the dark on my own in the bedroom and suddenly I could hear a giggle in the darkest corner of the room when his cot is. I might have soiled myself. I have no idea how long he had been awake for and how he was amusing himself in the dark like that. Highly intriguing.

He is going to have shit coming his way if in a few years time he starts moaning about going to bed with no lights on.

The few hours he is awake in the day, he is watching shit that I watch. Mainly because the few hours I get to watch mind-numbing crap on the telly, I am not going to watch Chuggington or a bunch of grown men act like idiots with learning difficulties constantly amazed at whatever mundane shit going on around them. I do that on a constant basis any way. OOOH WHAT IS THAT? A HOOVER! ZOOOOOOOOOM! ZOOOOOOOM! Shit, don't cry... LOOK IT'S A HOOVER! Bloody dog. Get out of the way! LOOK, MUMMY'S HOOVERING! ZOOOOOOOM!

Look, Human Child, it's CSI: Miami! Horatio is so cool when he takes off his sunnies. Looks like a twat, don't he?

I know... I need to stop cussing around him. He might just end up calling me Twat and his dad Knob. Not good. Not good at all.

Merry Whatever Doesn't Offend You.

To wish or not to wish. Chances are when you wish someone a Merry Christmas, said person is not a Christian or a big fan of this Jesus person anyway. Might as well say Merry Capitalism, as most Conspiracy Theorists would agree. I, for one, don't give a shit if you wish me a Merry Christmas. I will not be offended, being a person without faith in anything, and it will just be one of the many things my brain will process and store into that Don't Know, Don't Care, Not Worth Giving A Shit About Right Now space. I honestly do not care. If Merry Wishes were given to me out of the kindness of someone's heart or, more likely the case, something the staffs of TESCO has to say as per the daily morning briefings leading up to the fucktarded mayhem that is Last Minute Christmas Shopping, I'll take it. Or, like for myself, for lack of a better thing to say out of awkwardness when leaving the the doctor's after my son getting his second lot of jabs on Christmas Eve.

Merry Christmas, and have a good evening. Like I care, because it in no way affects me but I will just say it anyway so as not to come off as the social retard I actually am. No, really. Even if the person were to ramble about her husband's mid-life crisis after that I'd just sympathetically nod and worry about how on Earth are we going to survive until the next pay day when we have spunked hideous amounts of money on dinner for this one night and gifts for the children that they will be grateful for for the next ten to fifteen minutes upon opening them. The next day they are just going to open the kitchen cupboards and moan about there being fuck all for when The Munchies hit anyway.

What am I going to tell Kai about the meaning of Christmas? I don't know, mate, I don't do Christmas growing up. I just jumped on the bandwagon because presents and getting shit-faced on chocs and sweets appeals to me. There is no God but there is Santa, according to Daddy. Look, Santa ate the mince pies and left a fuckload of glitter all over the carpets. Guess we are all going to look strippers all the way to Easter then, my child.

I do get a kick out of  telling Jaz's other children that Christmas is not really Jesus' birthday anyway. His real birthday was on the 11th of March and the 25th of December is actually one of the many Pagan holidays the Christians took and made their own. Give the Pagans credit where it is due, I say!

Okay, it may or may not be the 11th of March but that is like saying the first sighting of Unicorns may or may not be during the Ice Age.

Fact is Pope Julius I declared Christmas on 25th December to convince the Roman Pagans to convert to Christianity because that the day Pagans celebrate Saturnalia to honour the God of Agriculture. An agricultural bloke is worth honouring, me thinks.

But who cares? I don't.

Just have a good holiday, rip open a lot of gifts, go mad with sugar rush, have a traditional family row, chuck roasting pans about in retaliation. It's just another day anyway. Do whatever you want with it. It is the end of the year and if you partake in Christmas you will definitely be skint as fuck, no matter what your household income is, so just enjoy the ride while you pork out on that obscenely massive dinner and harbour hate for your family members.

For me I am just glad that this year Jaz and I are no longer homeless. We have a home and if I want to kick shit up I am entitled to it. Men love when bitches go crazy during Festive seasons.

I should start blogging again.

Jaz said that I should probably start blogging again. I have a feeling he has never read any of my entries and he has no bloody idea what I've been going on about. My guess is he is probably, most definitely, sick of my running commentary on every single thing and clocked that my verbal diarrhoea re-surfaced each time I come away for too long.

Poor man. He has no idea that my desire to bludgeon people with blunt objects has got fuck all to do with my menstrual cycle. No idea at all. I just time my verbal assault to fit that time of the month so that I behave like a fully-functional woman, all stereotypically-pre-menstrual-y and stuff.

I came away to have a baby, just in case you're wondering, if you're not on my personal Faceshet account. He's three months old now. A slobbering little lunatic. He has yet to showcase the full extent of his lunacy but if Genetic Make-Up is a proven fact then I am sure some of mine and Jaz's would spill onto his person's personality. He is an amazing cuddler when he is not trying to force himself awake by spasming violently and planking. Amazing little human being with his own brand of Eau du Bebe Sick. Oh how I love him and his little sticky-outy ears and grabby Monkey Boy toes. Love. Every time I stare at him sleeping I get filled with love for the spit-encrusted baby. And then he will usually violently jerk himself awake, be extremely annoyed that he fell for that jiggy-bounce trick again and moan. Then, I will just look at him and think 'Oh, you silly little gibbon'. That was the toned-down version. Days on end of not enough sleep and what comes out of both my mouth and Jaz will make you question our characters.

So yeah... I will be back. But don't you worry. I won't be posting any of those Elf on the Shelf shite or Mummy and Baby Craft bollocks.

Until then, have a Happy Festivus, Restivus Pastafarians. Hope you attended Mass at the Church of The Flying Spaghetti Monster and properly aired your grievances at dinner.

My Parents, The Amazeballs Story-Tellers

I wonder if there are still parents out there who read to their children. Do fathers still sit with their kids at night and read to them? Do mothers sit with their kids in the evening and tell them stories? Or have those type of parents gone extinct altogether?

Both my parents are good story-tellers in their own right. My mom was not big on reading, claiming that reading puts her to sleep immediately, so all her stories were from her imagination. Whatever type of stories she starts with, be it poor little baby elephants that got lost in a parking lot or a little girl that swam into a lake, it always took on a weird espionage turn. The kind of turns that made me and my brother look at each other going 'Eh?'. Always, her characters turned into spies of the government one way or the other and they always ended up being kidnapped and she would end her stories with conclusions like: The moral is... Never talk back to your mother because Mothers are Wise. Mommy Logic For The Win. I come from The Secret Seven, Nancy Drew and The Naughtiest Girl generation and even I thought her twists and mysteries were fucked-out weird. That was why I love that imagination of hers and what she had contributed to my childhood so much.

My dad, on the other hand was almost never seen sober until he gave up drinking when I was about 15. He was not those abusive-drunk type. I have yet to meet another drunk who was as adorable, sweet-natured, soft-spoken and so fond of cuddles as he was. It was when he got reacquainted with God and turned sober that it all went to hell, in my opinion.

He would wake my 6-year-old self up and insisted on telling me a bedtime story at 3 in the morning. He'd pull out Beauty and The Beast and I could see that it was Beauty and The Beast and I would be sat on his lap with the book before us. His forefinger would underline the words he was reading and yet the tale that came out of his mouth was fuck all about Beauty and The Beast. I remembered being angry at first because it was the wrong story and he would cover my mouth with the other hand, laughed and said, 'Shh, don't interrupt me, the story is getting good' and read to me a story that was a horrendously hilarious mash-up of The Little Mermaid and Aladdin. Of course my dad was stupid silly to me back then but his mash-up skills were Amazeballs. There is nothing like having a gigglefit with a drunk at 4 am and trying to argue logic with him at the same time.

It did not matter to me then that my parents did not read to me the exact story or that the story made no fucking sense whatsoever and it does not matter to me now. It mattered to me that they actually sat there with me when they had a many other things to do but yet they chose to sit with me at whatever hours and fill my brain with images of these weird tales of fictitious characters and the logic is that there is no logic. Take whatever images I have planted in your head and run away with your imagination.

I get Jaz to read to me on nights I miss my parents horribly and it was always when he was about to doze off his stories are always 'Once upon a time there was a gibbon. That gibbon was so very tired after his long day and this other gibbon wanted him to tell her a story. The end.'

Yeah, our children will be so fucking lucky.

Hammerhead tits for Summer

Spring has sprung here. Supposedly. I am not yet sold on that idea, what with being caught in the rain every morning walking Stevie. Three layers of coats on does not equate to Spring. At least all the catalogues that pass through the mail slot here seem to suggest Spring is here. Pictures of obscenely happy, scantily clad blondes are all over the covers. Get fucking spades and buckets for your kids to play with at the beach, they seemed to scream. Looks like a beach in Brazil, with all that sun.

Pages upon pages of pictures of nubile, young women in brightly coloured dresses that seemed to have been shot in High Definition. Fucking neon tops that give you mixed reactions. Maxi dresses that makes me look like a cow wearing a tent. I'm not one for trends, haven't you heard? Mainly because this body right here makes most trends look hilarious, not that most of them already aren't. I will just wear whatever, so long as I'm not leaving the house bare-arsed and dressed for the wrong climate altogether. I will leave zebra and leopard prints to those who don't take themselves too seriously or can't be spotted from the other space.

What I will keep on top of would be bras. Wear cute underwear, people. I seem to like the idea that I can lift my top off in a toilet cubicle and have a short giggle over my choice of underwear that day. Then again, I am quite easily amused. Plus with the stupid amount of tube tops I seem to have accumulated off Primark sale bins, I realized I sorely need a strapless bra. I have no idea why I bought them tops. Exposing my armpits have never been a favourite pastime of mine. Neither is showcasing the uber jiggliness of my flabby upper arms. Body hangups whatever. Maybe I will just wear them while I am out hanging out the laundry in the balcony and do a semi-squat while I am at it just so that I can do the whole 'Ooh look at my sexy shoulders and note how I've done my hair today' parade. Maybe even the 'Have you noticed my barely there dewy make-up that I bought just in time for Spring?' pose. Don't you wish your girlfriend was as domestic yet with a hint of classy, sexpot hot like me? Yes, pay no attention to the lower body for my body is but a temporary vessel for this lifetime. Next life, I'll be a Daffodil.

Shopping for bras have been a nightmare lately. One reason being my breasts have truly given up on me and every time I look at them in the mirror they seem to be looking at me with disappointed and disdain. Fuck off you waste of space with no dedication in life, they seemed to hiss. You diet, you stuff your face, you workout and then you give up on life and now look at the fucking state of us due to your fucking lack of commitment. Yo-yo diet tits. Fuck off now and attempt to cover our sad state with your many bras and the stupid cushions you shove in them. The other reason being Jaz behaving like a total bloke in underwear departments. A bit hot under the collar, antsy and just plain fucking impatient. The fuck he cares I'm choosing a nice bit of negligee. He doesn't care and him behaving like that makes me shop for underwear in a frenzy. Shopping for bras in a frenzy results in me sitting on our bed after a bath in my new underwear close to tears. Ill-fitting fuckers. Aww baby, your tits are still pretty, he cooed, while diving into a packet of Jelly Babies. NO. I HAVE HAMMERHEAD TITS. The fucking cut and design of the bras were stupid. They must have stuck on the cute prints on it to disguise the fact that the design was shit. My tits have fucking panoramic view. They are conical and they face the both corners of the room. A flaw in the fucking design. A fucking flaw.

Now I have to make to make sure that when I am doing the laundry out in the balcony the neighbours don't see my general chest area or they'll say, Look out it's the Oriental Hammerhead Shark. At least Stevie seems to like nicking and darting off across the room with them.

Only in England?

Only in England can the weather be so horrendous that it is painfully funny. 'Standing out in the cold in your vest top when only 3 seconds ago it was blistering hot and now your nipples feel a bit frost-bitten' type of painfully funny. This country calls for industrial-strength bra-paddings. Not because you might need the extra boost, but you might need the extra protection for your pairs of raisins. The extra boost will not hurt either. My breasts fascinate me immensely. Sometimes they look sad, sometimes they look excited, sometimes they look like a teenager: Can't be bothered either way.

Only last week I was at a funeral of a wonderful, elderly woman who had touched my life during the short time I knew her. We looked up at the skies and it parted, letting in the Sun shine through and we smiled. Then we got pelted suddenly with hail. Was it a sign, someone asked. Yes, it is sign that there is some bit of frost in the clouds and the fuckers just scratched my sunnies. Is it too much to ask for to want to turn up looking like a presentable woman, ala Audrey Hepburn, instead of like that skank over there with her bloody fishnets and *le gasputin* OPEN-TOED SANDALS? Tsk tsk tsk.

Every morning, walking Stevie would result in a stupid debate over whether to just brave it and put a jumper on or layer up and end up looking like the fucking Michellin man. Do I need my Snood? What about my gloves? Ooh shit, my hat. Just to walk the fucking dog around the block. I would go out all layered up, walk down the path and suddenly it is fucking blistering hot. There I stood looking like a fucking twat. I'd be holding my coat and scarf in one hand and bags of steaming shit and the lead in another. Hopefully no other dogs start crossing paths with Little Shit or bags of steaming shit would go all over the fucking place. Then suddenly a cloud will pass and then BAM! You are in fucking Siberia. Goosebumps, frozen nipples, snotty nose, excited puppy.

I wonder... What to the first English people make of the world when they buggered out of this country for a short holiday and end up in Egypt in their bloomers and petticoats? I saw a documentary of Queen Victoria's visit to Egypt and there was a picture of her sat on a camel with her massive dress and hat on in the blistering heat.

I looked at the screen and suddenly broke into a giggle fit. Poor soul must have shat her bloomers, thinking she must be nearing the bowels of hell.

Convenience-Store Relationships.

Declarations of being in "An Open Relationship" scares me. Basically, when someone tells me that, or these days when FB tells me that So And Sos are in an open relationship since I can't be bothered to hold real conversations any more, I immediately imagine these people's nether regions as Convenience Stores. Does that make any sense? My visualization, I mean. One person owns the store but any Tom, Dick or Harry can come in and grab things from the shelves.

I've always seen relationships as more of a museum. See, but no touch. Marvel at the beauty that is on display but don't you dare lick or fondle King Tut's sarcophagus.

Maybe it was the way I was raised or the society I've been brought up in, but I just can't fathom the idea or another woman touching my man's Secret Bits with my permission. If Jaz can allow another person to touch my Bits, I see it as no different to prostitution, except for maybe the lack of payment. Or swinging. Jealous, much, Ella? It's not even because I have a sense of ownership towards Jaz's person. Neither do I think he can stake claim over mine. It's not like it is some True Blood (which is a garbage show, in my opinion) Vampire ceremony where I can say Jaz Is Mine and no one else can touch him or drain his bodily fluids. I'm not just saying this because it's Jaz. Fuck, our relationships might go tits up tomorrow, for all I know, due to unforeseen circumstances. It's all relationships I was in, currently am in and/or will be in the until day I kick the bucket. He is not my other half and neither am I his. I'd like to think we came into this relationship as whole people not needing to be half-filled in to. Fuck knows I have enough on my plate to worry about what the bloody hell is wrong with his hardware or where I can get a better graphics card for his person. I am like Sims 3 Base Game and he is my Night Life, World Adventures, Ambitions Expansion pack. I can still run without him but it's much more fun with him in it. Stevie is my Sims 3 Pets Expansion, while we're still on the subject. I can go on about this.

Why bother being in a relationship then? Is it so that you can have that one person to pin it to, no matter what, when you get unexpectedly knocked up? Or were you each others' back-up plans? Maybe you are just charitable... Oh, hey, come try out what I've been tapping. Baby, you've got such amazing Flappy Bits I want the whole world to be able to enjoy it. Or the men in the Hertfordshire, at least. Until of course, you decide to go to Ibiza and then the men on holiday there, too. Which will mainly be English men because you know how young, privileged English Youths like to go and gather in Ibiza and get Ketamined off their fucking reproductive systems.

What happened to the sanctity of relationships? I'm not talking about marriages because that thing is looking like a fucking sham to me these days. It seems like people are getting married just so they that can fuck around and then split up so that they can use "I'm a divorcee" as a pick-up line. Most homosexuals can't get married, yet they are allowing all these mindless, young as fuck heterosexuals with no fucking idea what contraception is getting married left, right and fucking centre.  The more I see all these stupid fucks getting married for reasons beyond me and the more children I see all dumb-founded due to the aftermath of their parents' sheer fucktardness, the more I want none of it. Maybe I will just remain engaged to Jaz forfuckingever. Really, I don't see the point of this God Person and Jaz doesn't either so we are not getting married to get in His Good Graces. Maybe we'll get 'married' by the beaches of Bournemouth, butt-naked, under the Moonlight and sing Kumbaya.


"I didn't marry your father because I was so in love with him and I cannot imagine another day without seeing my name as his Legal Missus on BT bills and Boots Newsletters. It was because he had knocked me up 3 times and I think it was about time he made an honest woman out of me and we can stop living in sin. So that we can later commit Adultery by sleeping with other people. Adultery sounds more grown-up."

Youtube Chefs

Am I the only one who watches cooking tutorials on Youtube for hours, like umm 6 hours, and then end up having fucking pot noodles for dinner anyway? It always reaches to the point where I get so starved of nutrients due to the bloody Youtube loop I got myself into that I just run off and get the nearest thing that will fill the massive cavity that is my stomach. Baked potatoes? What? Fuck it, just stick the kettle on.

I can cook, yeah. Nothing majestic, though. Simple dishes that make most pot noodles connoisseurs drool, however. The most awe-inspiring thing that came out of the oven, baking-wise, was the peanut butter cookies that Kaz taught me, pretty much. Almost always, I'd run to Youtube, or saunter as that is as much I am physically arsed to do, and look up Red Velvet Cupcakes (over-ambitious, I know, but you can't be over-ambitious about baking silicone cups of sin, then you don't have a lot to look forward to in life), and see them Youtube Chefs whip out their fucking Kenwood mixers. That is as soul-destroying as watching make-up tutorials and see the Beauty Gurus whip out their bloody MAC brushes and pigment pots. Fuck them who thinks they absolutely have to own MAC garbage to get ahead in life, make-up wise. I have never owned a MAC brush and I think I look phenomenal enough. Fact. That brand have enough exposure as it is. Then again, I just can't afford a MAC brush and I can't justify spending that much when other brushes have done the job for me. Back on my self-righteous horse-on-stilts I go.  I am so sick of them over-priced, mass-produced equipments. Like Dyson hoovers of the cooking world. Still, it wouldn't hurt if someone gets me a Kenwood mixer. It would be much appreciated.

Youtube Whatever is like porn for me. I watch it, I get sucked into it for the entire duration. Sometimes, I touch myself. Sometimes I immediately close the window when Jaz walks in, though that is usually when I have Air Supply on. I go 'Ooh, aah' and pull faces but I almost always never replicate whatever it was I had just watched. Like certain things that can never happen in my Secret Bits, certain things will not happen in my kitchen, Photoshop, or my general face area. I don't see why I would want to look like Neytiri from Avatar after watching the make-up tutorial. Although, I would like to try out the Zipper Face ones.

I don't get 'Cravings'.

I get proper, stark-raving mad, full-blown, near-dementia case of wanting to eat something.

When I was pregnant with Charlie, I would say things like 'I would really like a big, fat, juicy burger, dripping with burger relish.' and people would say 'Oh, the baby is craving, eh?' Eh? No. I want it. Not the baby. It was not what my body suddenly needed since I was with child. It was because I just fucking want a burger, okay?

Even now, in the middle of Winter when I pass by the freezer sections in Budgens, I would say I wanted a massive tub of Strawberry flavoured ice-cream. Not because pregnancy had meddled with common sense being you don't have ice cream in Winter. It is just because I just fucking want ice cream. And I am not pregnant. If ever I were to fucking ask for bloody Marmite and peanut butter sandwich then yes, demand me to piss on a stick. Until then, I just want to eat something.

I was sat in bed last night, describing to Jaz, my vegetarian partner, how fat, juicy and oily I want my roast chicken to be. Fucking rude, I know. Well out of order, but if I can't share my deepest, darkest desires with the man who shags my brain out then who can I share them with? He didn't ask me if I was pregnant. He had long accepted that I just bloody love my food and if my occupying a good deal of the bed with my massive arse does not already make it obvious, then I don't know what will.

I am just a fucking porker. I want my chicken. Why lie? Why sugar-coat the truth with lies like 'My body needs the protein'. Why? I thought we are all supposed to be true to ourselves? Your body just needed for your mouth to munch on some crispy, roasted chicken skin.

Why is it that when I am stuffing my face with a mountain of lush, fresh, crispy salad people ask me if I am on a diet? You fucking idiots can ask me such a question that would be deemed insulting in some cultures but when I answered with 'No, I am just eating me greens because I am constipated. I just needed something to make me shit soft so that it'll stop ripping me bum in tatters.' you recoiled in disgust and said 'Too much information, Love'. Oh, so the details of my mythical diet was just the right amount of information then? You don't need the entire details of my bowel movements then? Why are trying to bring me down when I am performing the sacred act of Having My Dinner?

Who actually noticed I was gone?

I have been away from the interwebs for a bit for reasons being the internet connection has been a bit painfully slow and boggy.

Added to that, I was also a bit under the weather. Nothing major but any reason for me to stay under the duvet and watch countless movies, I'll take it.

I have also managed to watch the entire ten seasons of FRIENDS and have spent a few more countless hours jumping between the seasons and marvelling at the transformation the cast have gone through. I have also found a new-found, bottomless pit of hate for Rachel. She is a slag, that Rachel. Let's face it. A fucking typical slag. Ross is a spineless swine. How is she 'The favourite Friend'? If I ever have a fucking friend like that, who is so hopelessly dippy, and self-centred, I will fucking top myself off. And why is she always walking around without a fucking bra on? I fucking despise anti-gravitational tits being flaunted on the telly. Stop. Trying. To. Offend. My. Tits. Media.

I had not realized I have spent this long being away from the internet, actually. Must be all those days killing animated spawns of Satan on Vampire: The Masquerade Bloodlines.

I'll even try to jump on FB for a bit later or something. There are some things on Facebook that I would rather not face at the moment. Yes, Pussy Way Out. We all take that route sometimes.

'Whatever' won the poll.

A poll was carried out on what is currently deemed the most annoying word on this dying blue globe and 'Whatever' took the cake.

I do see how that can be annoying. I see how when 'Whatever' was being said as an answer to a life-burning question like 'Shall we have Chinese for dinner?' (and whatever food-related is of utmost importance to me), it made me want to bash an inanimate object.

Other words on the list were 'Like' and 'You know'.

When I first knew Jaz, I realized that he ends his sentences with 'You know what I mean?' and it got my back up a bit because it made me wonder if he thought I was a bit thick until he had to double-check each and every time if I had indeed gotten what he was trying to say to me. Years down the road now, I have learned to filter that sentence, and a few other sentences along the way like... 'Don't throw this away, I am going to put this aside in a minute'. Maybe he does think that I am thick and he really is Being Patronising.

I am guilty of saying 'Like' like a lot. Really... Like... To the point of being hideously annoying when I am talking to myself in my head.

I am a bit surprised 'Literally' never made it to the list, though. 'Literally' has got to be the most misused word in the English language in this time and age. Every fucking corner I turn I hear people, mostly from the teenage to young adult age group, saying they 'literally' did something that was quite humanly impossible. Like 'Literally Died'. How many times have I sat in front on a person while they went on and on about their Super Amazing Life and then inserted some stupid First World Crisis like the battery of the iPhone died and they said 'I literally died. Like, LITERALLY, BRUV.' and I was sat there looking at them and said 'No mate. You did not "literally" die because you are standing right fucking here. You a fucking walking dead or something?' and then be seen as the World's Biggest Cunt Type Of Person. No, look, you phallus, The Oatmeal said so. I hate stupid people.

This is what happens when deluded twats try to pull of drama like I do. You are supposed to say it like this: I walked up that hideous hill in St Albans and I am telling you... A small part of me died inside.

Please don't make me walk away saying 'I like, LITERALLY, punched him in his fucking face for misusing an English word in England.'

No... Don't want to live on this planet any more.

The types of people I Unfriend-ed.

More often than not, I Unfriend-ed them because they are Dickheads. That is always a good reason to cull people off your lists, actually. Your Facebook so it is your prerogative, isn't it? No matter how trivial the matter or contributing factor that led to them being labelled as Dickheads. Dickheads come in various shapes, forms, sexuality, emotional and intelligence level.

Emotional Dickheads


Usually seen quoting Nickelback or Incubus song lyrics in their status updates. Not that there is anything stupid about them lyrics, but it is the way they are usually quoted in that soul-draining, heart-broken manner that makes me want to stab my own jugular with a child-friendly cutlery. What they are saying, these Emotional Dickheads, is most likely - Look, my girlfriend/boyfriend/whatever is being a totally emotionally-disengaged whore and she/he/it had left me so please just listen to my pain in these stupid lyrics that I am posting while I am doing a shit. Because I am deep and am a sensitive person like that. No, you are a Dickhead and you make reading my own Facebook feed more horrible than it should be.

Another type that falls into this category would be the Serial Relationship-Status Changer With Man/Woman-Bashing Tendencies.

I get it okay. Man are dicks. Woman are cunts, too, all right? I thought you wanted equal rights. Look, women burned their bras so that we could get equal rights as men, but now that you have got that equality you want to play the damsel in distress and not shoulder the blame?

Not all man/woman are arseholes, Love. Just the ones that you tend to go for are. Even I, who never actually interacted personally with you and only perved on your profile once in a while know that you have a soft spot for a certain type. You can't save his Bad Boy Soul. He will not change his ways for you. She will not stop being a slag for you. Trapping him/her with a baby won't make a difference either. You are just setting the child and yourself up for a fucking disappointment.

Fake Profile Pic Dickheads


I have actually gotten my FB-gaming and personal life mashed up in my FB and this is resulting in such a fucking, grotesque mess in my Friends List. With my FB-gaming ways, I have ended up randomly adding strangers to add more neighbours/mob/clan/bubble-poppers to my list and it is quite often I get added by some excessively beautiful people. Yes, there IS such a thing as being Excessively Beautiful. I have a love/hate relationship with Photoshop. Photoshop has made me lose all faith in the simpler things in life. You can't even look at something online or on a pamphlet without even wondering if the shit's been 'shopped.

It's bad enough now I have to worry if the person I'd just added had lifted a picture off the internet, I actually have to wonder if that is even human. Bloody Japanese engineers and their perfect love dolls. I have seen a few and it had scared me shitless. I don't like looking at the pictures of newly-added strangers and yell out loud 'What sort of Sorcery is this!?'.

These are men I am talking about, you know. I do know with women and our fucking inferiority complex (especially with bastard partners asking us if we've just gotten fatter at FOUR IN THE FUCKING MORNING), it's not surprising some of the female population feel like they have to stick a picture of an Excessively Beautiful model of Eastern European descent (the less she is known to the world, the better it is for you to get away with pretending to be her) to feel whole as a person. But a man? Yes, men are more sensitive to criticisms these days. I have come across a few with fucking albums of Indian actor's pictures saying shit like 'My photoshoot here and there and oooh, that is a picture of me in campus'. Mate, you have the MTV-Drama-Windblower on fucking campus? What? I don't want to live on this planet any more.


Religious Book-Thumping Dickheads


Like I have said before, practice what you want, just don't bring your fucking parade down my street.

I don't care what Jesus or whoever said. I am too busy looking into Alien sightings in Argentina. And that hoax moon landing. And Super-Earth that is some 36 light years away. You know if that planet there is fit for living in, them rich wankers are going to get first dibs anyway. They fuck THIS Earth up and then they are going to the other one and Super Fuck that one up as well. You know what? Let them all sit in an aluminium-encased capsule for 36 years trying to get there and let's see if they make it past the Van Halen without getting fried within an inch of their rich arses and claustrophobic at the same time. Let them eat cake.

I am going to form my opinions by what I can see with the shit that is happening around me and you entitled to your own, so please let us co-exist without fighting about who has the better imaginary friend just for a little while longer? Nibiru is on her way. We're all fucked.

Dickheads Who Think They Are Better Than Me


A fucking Capuchin who shits in a diaper is better than me. Don't come into my space and slag me off so that you can feel better about yourself, you pretentious self-righteous dickheads. Yes, haters gonna hate, you dumb fuck, and they have good reason to.

Putting an 'x' at the end of your fucking sentence just meant that you just slagged me off and kissed me. I am aware of that, you pussy. It does not erase the clear fact that you were a dickhead on my status.

Dickheads Who Put Kisses At The End Of Every Sentence


If I don't know you personally and you don't know me personally, your putting kisses at the end of your sentences just tell me that you are a Whore, not an overly-friendly person. As pretentious and ridiculous as those arseholes that kisses the air and when I kissed the cheek twice, asks me 'Oh we're doing two kisses now, are we?' Fuck right off the Devil's Pool in Zimbabwe. Just die and cease to exist, please. There is not enough Cannibals in this world to eradicate arseholes like you.

Oh shit, what did I just say!?

Children shouldn't be allowed to talk to me or ask me simple questions until they are well over 18.

I have somehow assured Jaz's son that there is no God and I have no idea how his mother would take that.

I told his other daughter that all man are bags of sperm and I have no idea how she looks at Jaz now after I've told her that. Well, in my defence, she was crying about boys and I was trying to hug her and shut her up so that whole 'Men are fucktards' speech was totally called for. And I also said, if it makes her feel better, I am stuck with the caveman that is her Dad. By choice.

The last time his youngest, who is now 12, asked me a question, my reply made me seriously question if I should be around them at all.

She sat next to me and asked me if I wanted her to read to me her diary entry. I was watching the telly and said, 'Well, your diary should be for your eyes only, shouldn't it?' and to that she said, 'No... I read them out all the time.' and then I said this...

'Well, that tantamounts to 'Exhibitionism', Georgia.' 


Cue for me to look over my shoulder, with my eyes bugged out as I stared at the wall and hissed, 'What the fuck?!'

DON'T TALK TO ME WHEN I AM WATCHING QI.

Because when I am watching QI, I have my Uppity, poncy mode on.

For fuck's sake, Ella, what is fucking wrong with you?

I am still praying she is not sitting at that dinner table, poking her food around like she always does and ask, 'Mom, what IS exhibitionism?'

Thank fuck she asked me 'Tantamount? Oooooh, what is that?' and realized that at that point of time that word in that entire sentence sparkled brighter in that mind of hers.

Your discontentment is deafening.

Door slammers scare me. It's these people who can't really voice out their discontentment and choose to express in the form of door slamming. Or cup slamming on whatever available surface. Feet stompers, even at the age of 60. Handbag chuckers. I worry about Handbag Chuckers. Surely you are worried about the contents of your purse? Something sounds broken in there. Or maybe you had premeditated this whole chucking routine and had filled your handbag with glass shards from that bathroom mirror that you had smacked down on your dresser this morning.

I understand aggression. Coming from a person who is so angry with the world for reasons from one end of the spectrum to the other - I understand anger. Just fucking voice it out.

Why is it that whenever I try to partake in this whole Door Slamming business, I get my fingers trapped and I'm left on the other side of the slammed door with tears in my eyes and feeling like a twat? Am I not made to slam doors with elegance? The last time I tried to slam a door, I ended up with my bedroom slipper left behind on the other side and said slipper stopped the door from slamming shut. I opened the door again with Jaz staring at me, smiling, and I felt like a blooming arsehole and I had to yell out a resounding string of vulgarities at the door, door handle, door jamb, slipper and then decided I might as well cuss out the carpeted floor, just so that each and every bit of the doorway got the same treatment.

My experience with slamming doors have never been pretty so I am guessing that is why my development in the Art of Slamming Doors is sadly stunted. When I slammed a door back home then to express my teenage frustration of not being able to sleep over at a mate's, I get greeted with my bedroom door being kicked back open a mere seconds away and since it was only a short time I had slammed it shut, it ended with the door being kicked open INTO me, followed by the terrifying presence of My Mother. If I had stomped up the stairs, and since we lived in Singapore where stairs were made of concrete and not shoddy, wooden floorboards like most houses here in England, I had to put in extra effort to make that stomping noise. We also do not wear our shoes in our houses, so we had no Doc Martens or even shitty foam-soled sandals to help us out. And with all that extra effort, I still got chased up the floor by Mother, had my waist-length hair then yanked back, followed by a slap.

So you see, I didn't get that opportunity to explore the many dramatic avenues of expressing myself. I had to make do with either sucking it up or screaming into a pillow after collapsing onto my bed Bollywood-style. Now as an adult, I feel a resentment for Door Slammers.

Since I can't slam doors with such flourish, I will proceed to slam Door Slammers. You lot are pussies. What are you trying to convey when you slam doors? If you are pissed off at me, tell me about it. Don't slam your cups down on kitchen counters if you are not happy. Chuck the cup in my face and let's have a proper punch up. Let's beat the fuck out of each other. Let us yell at each other until we are blue in the face. Tell me what is not right in your world.

I am so used with people telling that they are pissed off with me until I don't do silent treatment very well. I would just assume that whatever is wrong in your world, it is not me.

I think I am turning into my mother because now when a door is slammed in my presence, I instantly feel the urge to kick the door down and yell 'WHAT! WHAT! NOT HAPPY?! WHAT! DO YOU WANT TO DIE IN MY HANDS TONIGHT?! WHAT!'

What kids?

I just got back spending a little under a week with Jaz's kids. Oh, how I love spending time with teenagers and their constantly yelling, moaning, under-the-breath cussings and louder-than-loud accusations of which sibling is the bigger idiot. Then there are times when teenage aggression turns to the animals. It's always funny when a child is getting told off by a parent and then said child turns to a purely innocent animal and then yells at the animal for no fucking reason and say 'Dave, stop looking at me!'. Makes me look at Jaz's ex and try to telepathically tell her what a fucking trooper she is. She is. If I tell my child to listen and then the child yells back 'NO, YOU listen' my guess is a certain palm is going to make sharp contact with a certain face. But hey, that is just me. I support the slapping of insolent children. No, really. Sometimes talking rationally will not do. Seriously. Just lock them in the cupboard under the stairs. Might make a wizard or a witch, or anything interesting and useful, out of them.

Christmas is around the corner. Can't you tell? Christmas, moany children, shortage of money and getting hit by hail on the way to the shops to get your children the presents that they will not appreciate a mere two days later. Last year, Jaz's youngest was on the bloody Wii the whole blooming Christmas day and whines when someone tries to persuade her to turn the telly off so that we could watch some Christmassy garbage on the telly. I kept telling her that she needed a rest or her arms were going to pop off but no, she loved her Wii and OOOOH more games to be explored on Wii Resort. Or something. Was it Wii Resort? I think so. Then she proceeded to pass out on the settee and then woke up with the achiest pair of arms known to a child not in the child slavery business. Moan, whinge, cry, moan. No thanks for the Wii. Wii remote discarded in between the settee cushions. Got sat on. A month later would be stepped on, no doubt, before finally being misplaced long after it was forgotten about altogether.

The eldest son got a PS3 where he spent more of his teenage time in his dark, teenage-boy-smelling bedroom on shooter games that breed aggression, came out when a level had beaten him 18 times in a row, resurfaced only to demand new games, snacks and what time dinner would be dished out. Occasionally, he would hint someone to run his bath.

The eldest girl got a laptop which later on had a whole can of whole up-end on it.

I saw a status on Facebook with someone saying 'I am glad I don't have to go out and buy toys for kids'. I'm thinking, 'Wow, you are lucky if you can find a kid that actually wants toys now.' or 'I'd like to meet a kid who wants toys'. Do they still want toys? The last time I talked to a child, the child said she wanted a fucking iPhone 4S. No, listen to me, you are a child so ask for a fucking doll. A stupid Barbie or that equally stupid bear that you can change its clothes depending on the season. Whatever happened to those girls who wanted a baby doll and a pram to go along with it? Do those type of girls still exist? Why is it that every child I meet now wants an electronic device of sorts? Why must it be plugged it or charged for a half a day before it can even be fun?

You know what I want for Christmas?

A book. Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins. I want to know what bloody happens now in that third book. I am also looking forward to Hollywood slaughtering that good book to hell and back. And an iPod with a no-bleed pair of earphones so that I can read and drown out all the fucking Daaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaad! and shit.

And Jaz's ex should have her bath run for her with sinful bath bombs and Bailey's Hazelnut after. Jaz? He should be the mediator by yelling 'You are ALL fucking idiots!'

They are lovely kids. When they are, without realizing it, being nice to each other and not trying to out-cuss each other in the name of sibling rivalry. Like each and every other children, really. Like myself and my brother, in fact. But we got punched for kicking shit up.

But still... I love them. And I do end up being that person that say stupid shit like, 'Awwww, I know, mate. Siblings are like that. Come here, give me a hug and brush my hair.'

Embarrassing.

His bloody fault.

It is half 4 in the fucking morning.

A few hours ago, not too long before he spontaneously passed mid-way through a conversation, he looked at me, through the eyes of someone on the brink of a mental break-down from sheer physical exhaustion, and said , 'Have you gotten bigger lately?'

Balls of fucking steel. BALLS OF FUCKING STEEL.

Earlier today while I was getting ready to go out with him, he had passed by me, stopped and casually squeezed my left breast and looked at me dead in the eye. 'Did you find a lump in there?'

'Have you got socks in there?' He asked.

Have I WHAT?

'You know, you watched that video of that bird stuffing socks in her bra and you tried it the next day, remember?' He smirked.

I was taking the fucking piss! Just to see you roar with laughter when we shagged and socks fell out.

Do you not know what your Missus' real tits feel like?

So today, for the second time I really looked at him.

'I have dropped two sizes. I can still fit in my Pre-Charlie clothes, plus room to move in it,' I answered calmly. 'What the FUCK are you ON!?'

I was saying this with a hairbrush knotted in my fucking hair and the bloody puppy kept trying to go for it and catching me in the chin with her chompers.

'I am going to donate you to the less fortunate this Christmas, Stevie, if you don't fucking SIT! Fuck off! SIT! Good girl. Now go bite the fuck out of your toy. Go on.'

'I don't know... You just look... Big to me these days,' he replied.

'Since when?!'

Yank, yank, curses, fucking yank again on the hairbrush.

'This is your fucking doing this stupid hair. I want to cut it short again!'

'But you fucking moaned when your hair was short and you just fucking said you are going to get bloody extensions because it's not long enough. What the fuck are YOU on?'

That was true. He was right. Back to yanking.

'So which part am I bigger then?'

'I don't know, Baby. All over.'

'Are you having a laugh? I have fucking lost weight. I have dropped sizes. My tits have shrunken and look at how sad they are! LOOK.'

'Maybe I am seeing things wrong...'

'Have you, after all this time been under the illusion that you have been shagging the clothes-horse?'

He laughed. Oh how he roared with laughter.

'You're beautiful, my baby. Really. The most beautiful woman alive.'

I went on and on about what a cockless comeback that was and how I expected more of him but when I turned to look at him, he was cuddling Stevie and Stevie was cuddling her Daddy with that fucking manky rope that she had bloody pissed on in her mouth still.

So, it is his bloody fault that I am now watching Youtube tutorials of Pilates.

Okay well maybe I just want to slim my thighs a bit just so that they can stop rubbing against each other and make the weirdest of noises when I have tights on.