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humour

To shave or not to shave

It’s been a long time since I last shaved my legs.  Not long enough that dinosaurs might have been roaming the earth but long enough that I knew it was going to take more than one razor and quite a lot of bending over. I’m not entirely sure what possessed me to even consider tackling anything below waist height last Thursday evening when I could have been reading Ulysses or collecting nail trimmings to make them into a sweet little doll to sell on Ebay.  Whatever the reason, it was on a cold, dark winter’s night that I found myself stood in a bath full of nature’s delightful nectar that is our life source and provider of many fun sports and other things not mentioned because they’re just too rude.

Any sensible person would have washed in the water first and not gone straight for the razor.  If, like me, you suffer with hypotension, you will know that bending over whilst standing in hot water, are a recipe for disaster.  I’d like to know why and how any sane person can do this on a daily basis.  Do you actually do it for yourself or because your partner likes it ‘that way?’

In hindsight, doing it in the bath was not the best decision I’ve ever made.  Picture the scene if you will…what looked like I’d just plucked the hairs from some wild animal and then fired them around the edge of the white bath from a paint gun.  I was not only standing in water floating with monstrous black hairs but I was surrounded by an army of millions of the little devils, all waiting patiently to be removed and to block my very tiny plug hole.

It took what seemed like forever.  The reality was more like 26 minutes with brief intervals to lift my head and recover my falling blood pressure.  It’s worth noting at this point that I was unlikely to be revealing my legs to anyone other than my bed sheets but I’d started so I had to finish.

I was slightly confused as to where the leg hair started and ended and where my lady garden might have bordered the said leg hair and in truth, the only way of finding out was to wait for the inevitable itch/scratch cycle that comes from said preening of hairy wotnots.

I am in a minority of women who likes to keep things wild.  I’ll admit to spending an age being on the other side of the fence when I could actually be bothered to gaze between my thighs with my glasses falling from my nose as I tried to navigate the undulations of my womanhood.  Pubic hair grows back quicker than you might imagine and within hours the ‘inevitable itch/scratch cycle would kick in and I’d resort to ice cubes and airing my snatch in the hope it would abate for long enough to allow me to float gracefully through the aisles of the supermarket without the need to scratch my snatch.

On a positive note, I came through it mostly unscathed and without a single drop of blood.  I was so cocky about this that I immediately set-to with my foot file in the hope of smoothing my ankles and feeling half a stone lighter.  Who in their right mind uses what looks like a miniature cheese grater on their own flesh? I can attest to the fact that when it slips, and it did, that it hurts like buggery and cuts deep.

It wouldn’t have been so bad if I had just been able to hop in the bath to wash away the Merlot coloured seepage but not wanting to step into the hairy shallows, I slapped on some bog roll and set about emptying the bath and releasing the remains of the wild animal.

I’ll definitely not be repeating this process any time soon but for one night, my legs were smooth, my plug hole was hairy and I felt a little less than half a stone lighter.

humour

Soggy tissues, sweary words and stinky fish smells

You know the sort of day I mean…when you get up super early because you are organised and have a list.  A list that has sub-lists and those sub-lists also have their own little clan of tiny tiny lists that are mostly inconsequential in the grander scheme of things.

The washing machine has already produced one soggy pile of laundry, complete with 980 bits of toilet roll of varying sizes…none of which are useful but they do stick to plastered walls if you throw them or spit them from your mouth.  Caution is advised as inhaling with said soggy tissue paper tucked just inside the lips can, if not secured with a vice-like grip, reverse rapidly into the trachea like a frozen pea looking for freedom.  I know this from experience because at almost 49 and three quarters, one partakes in such activities because doing so as a child would have resulted in a slipper on the arse moment.

With laundry hanging precariously from the clothes horse and tools in hand, I made my way to the job at the top of the list and the only job that didn’t have its own sub-list because I’d ordered the part from the supplier and they assured me that it was the correct part because they were the experts.

The water was turned off at the mains.  The valves to the mega flow and accumulator were also turned off.  In essence, this meant that I would be safe and dry and ready to tackle the world with my wrench and wotnots.  What should have been a 30 minute job, turned into a twice x three hour job with swear words of a nature I couldn’t possibly repeat but I was glad that I’d saved some of the soggy tissue because shortly, I would have a whole family of soggy tissues with little babies and bunny rabbits with floppy ears and a budgerigar named, Fred.

I have the patience of a Saint in a sandstorm with only a paper cup and some stockings but even that was tested as I jiggled and wiggled and levered and pulled and made up another 3 sweary type words not yet known to man nor beast and never before the watershed.

I phoned the supplier to explain my dilemma.  Yes I had removed the grub screws.  No I wasn’t a plumber.  Blah blah blah.  I contemplated sending her some soggy tissues in the post in a paper envelope with some sand.  Then the handle came off in my hand, complete with sheared bolt. There’s always a positive to a negative. The original problem appeared to be fixed.  The shut off valve worked with ease without needing a replacement part, which was just as well as they’d sent me something entirely different and at only 70 odd quid, well…a bargain.  Just think how many toilet rolls I could have purchased. Now I had an entirely different problem and need another 3 parts instead of the original part that was not even the right part.

The day couldn’t really get any worse. Lunch was fleeting and hurried. All was in hand though as I set about descaling the shower tap over the sink.  One must never be too complacent. Always pop the plug in or pull the lever to secure the work area. Ping, pop, drop, whoops and away she goes down the plug hole of no return.   The tiniest of parts disappearing from sight in the dingy darkness of doom and 10 year old mouth spit.  Not wanting to waste any more of my day off doing the dirty work, I picked up a toothbrush and shoved that into the tiny little hole that was hardly big enough to hold a sausage roll.  I have big hands for a woman and I’m clumsy.  These two things combined make for an absolute cluster fuck when faced with tiny holes and damp dark places.  Not only had I lost a tiny whatnot but now the pink toothbrush with no name had joined it in the hole of 10 year old mouth spit and what smelled like, dead fish.

This had turned into an epic all day session in the bathroom of buggery bollocks that had more tools than my local hardware shop.  I’d lost a wotnot and a toothbrush and my family of soggy toilet paper had started to dry out and lose their appeal.

If you’ve ever cleaned out a trap from beneath a sink then you’ll feel my pain, particularly when you find that you have to resort to poking around in thick black gunge for the wotnot and find your pink toothbrush is now brown and green and smells like the excretion oozing from a dog’s anal glands.  I never did like pink.

The moral of the story is to have a back-up plan, plenty of toilet paper, the correct parts and a sense of humour the size of Cornwall with a bag full of wotnots just in case and a spare toothbrush that isn’t pink.

random, Uncategorized

I am such a clutter-fuck

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There’s little surprise that I am plagued with incessant mind-chatter when my work bench is as cluttered as the Women’s Institute yearly jumble sale.  I used to pride myself on being super organised.  A place for everything and everything in its place, except for when it is not and then it is a clutter-fuck kind of lifestyle but an organised one…at least in my mind or it would be if that wasn’t filled with a list as long as the wooden school ruler I snapped out of anger when it felt like the right thing to do at the time.

I’d like to say that I staged the photograph of my work bench; took time to arrange everything to look as though a small army of little borrowers had rummaged through my boxes looking for thimbles to use as tents or machine headed screws to use for fairground rides.  The cold and stark truth is that this is what it looks like without intervention.

Three days ago it was neat.  Everything was in its place.  Order had been restored and the incessant mind-chatter was at manageable levels and not in need of self medicating with a quick flick through Ulysses whilst sitting on the toilet with a toothbrush tucked between two of my toes as I pretended to be doing something useful instead of putting off Operation Declutter.

I avoided visiting the toolshed today because I knew that even if I searched through the twice-loved screws (some with rounded heads but was keeping because I wasn’t sure what to do with them and didn’t want to deposit them in the bin because that seemed such a waste) I wouldn’t find the 45mm M3’s that I required for the cupboard handles shipped from China because apparently I’m too colourful by far for the UK.  Who knew that this would be the size that even B & Q wouldn’t stock.  I already knew they didn’t have them when I set off on a 25 mile round trip.  I had to satisfy myself and anyway, it was the perfect opportunity fill my trolley with two orange plant pots that would inevitably still be empty come this time next year, 5 pots of rainbow coloured paint, a roll of sandpaper to file the calluses on my hands and some brackets that weren’t white but more vomit-coloured but might take a splash of yellow paint if only I could be bothered.

It’s Thursday tomorrow and if, between constructing a little coloured box for my wotnots, I can find the time (which might be hard because I think it’s wedged between the box of drill bits and some pieces of wood that were once destined to be something but that’s another story altogether) and anyway…time is borrowed and with that in mind, I need to borrow at least 7 hours for some much needed shut eye and to contemplate getting a bigger shed or part with all the items I’ve been saving…just in case I need to repair the shed because it’s full of clutter-fucking objects.

handstands

A girl can never have too many toys.

A girl can never have too many toys.  Oh, I hear the cogs whirring and stirring and conjuring up all manner of perverted thoughts about what this might mean.  If, like me, you are handy with the tools and spend more time with a router and an impact driver than your friends, you’re in good company.

I’m a firm believer that if I see something I like and want, I’ll make it myself and if I can’t make it myself, then I’ll have to go without.  Am I the only girl who spends hours searching the web for flanges?  And why don’t they come in a range of colours so that I can change them depending on my outfit?

I’ve been lusting after some handstand canes for the entire summer.  Life got in the way.  I got distracted with building some p-bars outside and on splitting my difference trying to get the ever elusive middle splits.

Having waited patiently for the flanges to arrive, I spent my lunch hour with my trusted tools and created my very first canes.  They are fit for purpose.  I’ve no doubt I’ll be tweaking them and turning them into candy striped yellow and blue loveliness on a blustery Autumn day when I should be cleaning gutters and tending to the garden but I’m so easily distracted and the best bit of all is that I created something with my own callused hands.  More on that subject later.

It’s not as if these things are step ladder high but size counts when you live in an upside-down world and even a few inches makes all the difference.  If you are sniggering at the back, I know what you’re thinking.  Yes, every inch counts and makes my entry that much more nail biting.

I shall promise to share with you, my trials, tribulations, tips and tears.

instagram

Instagram

 

 

 

It’s how I fell into the world of yoga and my very first attempt at a headstand.  It was not pretty.  I’d never heard of a hollow body, pinchamayurasana or tittibhasana and wasn’t even sure what an asana was or if it might be edible.  How far I’ve come on my journey…complete with bruises, broken toes and an ego very firmly in check.

I have a love hate relationship with IG.  It’s a bit like having a friend hanging onto my belt or stuck to the bottom of my shoe like a piece of chewing gum.  There’s good and bad in every aspect of life and IG is great if used wisely and with the knowledge that it might make you feel the need to check in for rehabilitation or worse, smash your iPhone with a sledge hammer as you cry into your Lulu Lemons.  Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t be doing what I’m doing if it wasn’t for IG.  Neither would I have connected with so many amazing souls from across the globe.  Neither would I be pressing into a handstand after only months of starting that crazy journey on my hands.  Yes, there are still things that infuriate me about IG.  It’s my choice.  I wake up in the morning and climb into my big-girl pants and I either tell it as it is or press that unfollow button.  I’ve more important things to worry about…is my compost too soggy and will my cucumbers mature before Autumn?

Spam – it’s my pet hate.  I’m pretty certain that when I started on IG last year that I got carried away and shared all my little successes, every bloody day, without any thought for the poor people having to trawl through thousands of videos and pictures in their feeds.  I at least had the balls to ask someone why they had unfollowed me and was told very politely that I posted too much. This led to some reflection and soul searching on my part and a huge change to what and how much I posted.  I now feel that one or two posts a day is bearable.  I don’t rush to share my own successes but would rather post to help others on their journey.  Someone once said that what we post on IG is just for us and therefore we can post whatever we like and as much as we like.  If that’s the case, why isn’t your account private with zero followers if its just for you?  After all, we are posting into other people’s feeds.  It would be foolish to think that we only post for ourselves.    I love to share in your successes and progress but if you are at post number 19 and it’s only lunchtime…I’m going to hit that button and unfollow you because I somehow feel my feed is now dedicated to you and you alone.  It doesn’t matter how much I like you, I’m going to be true to my word and keep things manageable for my own sanity.

If you tag me and ask me to follow some random person because they only need another 200 followers to reach 5000…think again.  Since when do we buy followers with the promise of a prize? I’ll follow on my own volition because I’m interested in their content and because they don’t spam.  I didn’t reach 49 by being told to be friends with someone because then their world will be balanced by having 5000 people.  All of whom will of course comment and engage in constructive dialogue…or not. It’s best to air these little niggles so they don’t turn into huge boils that need lancing with a rusty needle.

My advice…be thoughtful, be respectful to others, keep your ego in check and use it as a tool and not a lifeline.