Time and tide wait for no vampire

Eight months.

Yikes.

Yeah… sorry.

I know I normally disappear about June or July and pop back up again in September or October.

This year was a bit different. The summer was rubbish, but then you knew that already.

We’ve moved again. Had to. Well, I say ‘again’, but it’s only ‘again’ for me. The hubster is swearing on any and everyone’s life that he’s never ever, ever (with extra ever) going to move again. It was a long and drawn-out process and one which was bereft of wifi.

Modern savagery, right?

How did we survive?!

I don’t know, but the trauma will no doubt last for a while. Just joking. But it was a nuisance.

I’ll just check my bank baI can’t.

No time to go food shopping, I’ll just do it onlidang.

Ooh, I need to email Bob abou- Gahhhhhhh!

#FirstWorldProblems, as they say.

Anyway, we’re here now. And I’m able to talk to you again. I’m really glad about that. I’ve missed you. I’ve missed talking to you.

Okay, at you then.

Blame the jet-speed brain again. That’s how eight months have gone by so fast. Or so slowly. I don’t really know which it is. Another weird thing about being a vampire – our (is there an ‘our‘, or is it just a ‘my‘? I don’t know…) sense of timing varies between brilliant or non-existent.

And when I say ‘varies‘ what I actually mean is – it’s one thing or the other, baby. No in-betweens for this puppy.

(Did I ever mention that my favourite clock runs anticlockwise? It’s so much easier to tell the time by it…)

So either

NASA could set the clocks on the Space Station by us/me.

or

I do everything now in a minute

Mind you, that second one’s more a Welsh thing than a vampire thing.

Historically, it could have been a vampire that named The Hundred Years’ War (116 years). Or The Thousand Days’ War (1130 days). Or The Thirty Days War (304 days)…

But not The Eighty Years’ War – that one actually did last eighty years.

I was walking back home with the hubster today after a little trot into town. I confused him. I often do. I mentioned something about a lady in a Burberry scarf walking on the other side of the street. She looked so smart.

Then about ten foot-dragging minutes later, with much reflection and cogitation on my part, I wondered aloud whether our dog was alright on her own (oh yes! That’s another bit of news – we have a little rescue dog now).

Did I say ten minutes?

Apparently it was less than a few seconds. The hubster was puzzled as to why I was so concerned whether Scarf Lady would need to be let out for a poo.

Yeah…

(((cringe)))

Til next time. Promise not to leave it eight months.

 


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Donkeys and Bottoms

This isn’t about Midsummer Night’s Dream… And I’m getting in there quick because I just know what some people out there are like…

“Aaaaactually, as any idiot will tell you, it’s an ass…”

You said it, buddy.

But you…. you’re not like that. I know you’ve got more sense. I know you’ll be thinking, “Hmm, there’s an odd title. I wonder where she’s going with this…” And you’ll read on until that light bulb moment when it suddenly makes sense. I like that about you. Thanks.

However, there’s no avoiding the fact that people like you are few and far between, and it seems, sadly, that your numbers are dwindling day by day.

Remember ages ago, I said I wasn’t the bitey kind of vampire? Well, I’ll stand by that. And yes, I did admit that there are times when I’m tempted. People like the above “Actually” would be first in line. Although, ‘actually’, thinking about it… No.

A good example of a Mr Actually happened a while ago. And yes, like most of these instances, it happened online. Oh! The arrogance of online anonymity! I had made an innocent comment, stating an opinion about a subject that I happened to have several decades of knowledge/training/experience.

Mr Actually said, “You know, I’d never thought about it like that. That’s a very interesting point of view. Thank you for your thoughts. I always appreciate hearing a viewpoint that differs from my own.”

Only joking!

Of course he didn’t! Mr Actually went into full-on rant mode. He was like a terrier on a rat. His pages of diatribe and foul-mouthing I will tactfully condense into the following cute little couplet…

You’re wrong, I’m right.

You’re stupid, I’m bright.

I then went on to reply that, quite simply, this was my opinion. I didn’t bash him over the head with the whole knowledge/training/experience thing. None of it could be a match for his obvious expertise. Indeed, rather than accepting my statement, he behaved as though I had suggested that his mother had had a restraining order slapped on her by the local donkey sanctuary.

And the vitriol continued. I learned my lesson that day.

Pre-internet, I remember (decades ago) discussing a thesis of mine with someone who, miraculously, knew more about what I was doing than I did, even though he was hundreds of miles away. It also happened recently. Now, I know I’m technically a genius, but the intellect of these naysayers must reach such dizzying heights as to be beyond my simplistic understanding…

Anyway… My take on the matter now is this: You can disagree with me all you like: it doesn’t make me wrong. Or you right.

If you have to deal with people like this, may I politely suggest you try this out as a mantra? It’s actually quite invigorating.

Opinions, you see, are like, er, bottom-holes. Everybody’s got one.

The reason I would never succumb to temptation and bite is quite simple.

I would never eat something that disagrees with me.


Follow me on Twitter @EverydayVampire