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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You know you want to.

If at first you don’t succeed…

…Don’t try bungee jumping.

Wow, there are so many variations on that one, isn’t there?

  • … Skydiving is not for you
  • … just do it the way your parent/spouse told you to do it
  • … cheat
  • … lower your standards

And then of course, my personal favourite as a child was

  • … you’ll end up in the [poop]

Now, you know what a literal person I am: If someone says to me “Hold your tongue”, I probably will do exactly that. The reason for my version of that particular adage is also literal…

Growing up in the wilds of West Wales, there were lots of things we didn’t see that ‘city folks’ (anyone living somewhere with more than 10,000 people) took for granted.  On the flip side, we were surrounded by lots of things normally tucked away and hidden from them.  Animals, fields….

Fresh air.

Or, in this case, not so fresh air.  At the bottom of my garden was the local sewage processing plant. We thought it great fun to do our version of a tightrope walk across the very narrow borders between the ever-flowing effluent. Not everyone made it across every time.  I have no idea why pigs are supposed to be happy in that stuff.

Okay, so I’ve used 3 words to describe it so far: poop, sewage, effluent, and stuff. Okay, that’s four. But at least I have a reasonable vocabulary. There was, of course, one word for ‘it’ that was never allowed. You know, the one that rhymes with ‘it’…!

Like most homes, we have our own bank of euphemisms for everything (the hubby still can’t get his head around my calling a remote control a ‘dit’). My friend’s family used the phrase “S. H. One. T”.  Our house word was ‘tish‘.  Which was great, up to a point.

Mother loved soap operas.  Oh, how she adored them.  Every time I went home to visit, she would ask me if I had heard about the horrible fate of a Mrs So-and-So, and then went into a description so vivid that I felt like I was there, feeling every ghastly bump and groan as the ill-fated Mrs S met her grisly end. And then of course just before I’d ask about the funeral, I’d realise that she was actually talking about some soap character. I swear that woman memorised the licence plates of every single black taxi in Eastenders.

But back to the poop. One of her favourites ‘back in the day’, when there were only a handful to choose from, was Crossroads (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u8s26Pk-gkk), which featured a character called…. wait for it…

Wait for it…

Tish!!

That in itself was hilarious enough, but one line is forever etched into my memory.  The poor woman was having an extremely busy time of it, snowed under by lots of something that has since been forgotten, overshadowed and subsequently erased by this one glorious line, muttered (I think) by the owner of the Crossroads Motel:

“Poor Tish! She’s up to her eyes in it!”

Clearly some people should steer clear of sewage processing plants…. and skydiving.

 


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Geronimo!!