You can't fight entropy

It's a battle, housework, isn't it?

It's important to remember, that come the end days when our sins and good deeds are measured by the almighty sky daddy, it's unlikely he'll give you a demerit for not having a tidy sock drawer.
If you want an example of the 2nd law of thermodynamics, look no further than your carpet, it'll tell you all you need to know.

You can't fight entropy.

Unwedded Bliss

Being one of those happily engaged (swoon! at the romance) but really can't quite make the extra effort and do the deed type of people, I spend literally minutes of my time working out if there is a good way to finally make Sidekick an honest man. Options include:


* The "Registry Office Number". Get married to the strains of your chosen deeply cheesy ballad (I'd suggest "Nothing Else Matters" by Metallica for preference) and allow the most important day of your life to be presided over by Betty, who's put on her best hot pink polyester skirt suit. She'll list your vows in a voice that somehow manages to drip sarcasm, saccharine sweetness and boredom in equal amounts. This is legally binding. And she'll make sure you know it.


* The "We wrote all the vows ourselves" wedding. Speaks for itself, really. I'd recommend stealing Jonathan Safran Foer's words from "Everything Is Illuminated" along the lines of some very worthwhile promises (I will refill the toilet paper holder, I will allow you to have the last word in every third argument, after you have given up hope of ever seeing me do the washing up, you will come home to discover that the draining board is empty, etc) rather than listing just how much you looooove your other half. Of course you do, but there are bound to be cynics at the wedding, and providing 80+ (colour co-ordinated and stylish, possibly avant guarde) sick bags may prove a budget breaker. Mr SF's site

* The "Druidic Rune-Fest". Still, at this point, a winner for me, owing to my conviction that my father would disapprove mightily. Childish I know, but I am the youngest, and therefore genetically most likely to disappoint. Hire a long haired aging hippy chap to make the incantations, dress like an extra from the Rohan set of LOTR, and force all of your friends and family to join together in blessing your marriage in an empty field somewhere "celtic". Note: check for bovines before beginning. They can become almost terrifyingly curious once they get over being startled.

* The "Piss off abroad and avoid having anyone you know watch". Good for those who want to combine sun, sea and strong liquor, with absolutely not under any circumstances spending any time or cash on Great Auntie Ethel. Bit of a cop-out really. Suffering the presence of your family is an integral part of any wedding. And you know that foreign food doesn't agree with you. Ever since you were a kid you've got the runs every time you're away from the house for a night...sorry, I've slipped into mother mode. See? You cannot escape, no matter how much you want to.

* The "We've got an obsession and we are not afraid to blackmail you into taking part" celebration. Suggest on the invitation that anyone not wearing a really excellent Star Wars costume will not be allowed in, and have all the hymns translated into Wookiee. Aren't you a little short for a wedding guest?

So there is my dilemma. Anyone got a better idea, let me know. The time it takes me to come to a decision, I'll be away the crow road before I get to be a Mrs. Pity. I've got a dress pattern ready to sew and everything....

Faster, Pussycat!

Deranged hair? Check


Eyebrows accidentally over plucked into a permanent expression of surprise? Check


Fat buster tights forming weird triple ridge beneath skirt, around hip area? Check


Legs with stubble you could light a match on, on account of not having shaved? Check


Business entirely as usual. Must be nearly Wednesday then.

Sideshow Boob

Last time, I absolutely promise. Or call it a leitmotif, whatever makes you happy.

At the weekend I purchased a new bra. I rather liked it, it's kind of meshy and slightly floral, with those sort of foamy line-enhancing cups. Foolishly, I did not try it on, assuming that manufacturers of lingerie actually stick to sizes when they make the damn things. Idiot.

I tried all the usual manoeuvres while getting dressed, tightening the straps, hoiking the twins up and resettling them, to no avail. The bosoms rested in the cups (hate that word) like a pair of Victoria sponges that had been cooked for too long and had shrunk back in the tins. Running short on time and patience, I slung on a loose sweater, hoping this would disguise the evidence, and made haste for the office. Uplift, schmuplift.

On reflection I should have thought the whole thing through more. In the bathroom mirror, the tightened straps made my chestal orbs appear to be levitating against the wool. There was a definite amount of quad boob going on , only the top two halves of the quad had seemingly sunk. I also noted a certain level of oscillatory action. Look into my boobs, you are feeling sleepy, very sleepy.......

I can only assume that either a) Lingerie makers are assholes or b) my boobs have shrunk.

Sidekick notes, "Bigger is better than smaller, I suppose. Although, that's a matter of opinion". Definitive, I think you'll agree.

The Joy of Spam

Once in a while I delve into the bucket of dross that is the spam folder of my email account. Gmail is pretty good at catching this stuff, but I still feel the need to go in once in a while to check that no vital missives from NASA are stuck in there and can't get to me ( they will call, one day, and then yea verily, I shall save the Earth). Today, this gem:

Subject: cockroach dossier boris

Well, as far as spam goes, the subject line caught my eye. That is one magical title, the imagery, the mystery, the poetry of it, magnificent.

Turned out to be the usual offer for WALLIUM C1ALlS VlAGRRA of course, but frankly, as far as drugs go I prefer nicotine, caffeine and cocaine cut with baby powder and meringue dust.*

What a disappointment. And who the hell is Silas Huntley? Or Gilah Holt? Apparently someone thinks I know them, 'cos the email was addressed to them. These spam generators are getting artsy perhaps? Spam as literary art? Laudable.

*just kidding about the baby powder

Regrettable Conversations

I expect to be hit with some sort of sexual harassment lawsuit any day now.

Me: "Have you got those info sheets from last week?" Him from work: "Yup. Copies of 'em." Short pause. "I'll give you one." Me: "That'd be great! .......Hur hur hur."

And previously, aiming for some sort of group harassment charge:

Me: "Have you heard about Steak and Blowjob day? It's the masculine antidote to Valentine's day." Another, different him from work: "Great! So everyone should come round to yours later then." General laughter from gathered colleagues.
Me: "I'm not doing steak for that many people."

So, for the record, I swear I am innocent. I am merely victim to my total inability to think before I speak, leaving me to regret my words at a leisurely pace later on. You know that flesh creeping sensation as you remember what you said? Remembering the look on other people's faces? The expressions of disbelief?
They'll never get the charges to stick, right?

Mindless Tedium

You must have experienced that moment of self knowledge, when it becomes clear that all that is exciting, fresh and new is behind you. Never again will you feel the thrill of the new, the pounding heartbeat of life, the frenetic song of existence. Ahead is only drudgery, day melting into day, month into month, year after year, until finally, weak and exhausted by ennui, your life is snuffed out like an inconsequential tea light.

In other words, I had to get up at 6.30 this morning to go back to work after a week off. It's remarkable how a night of mild insomnia followed by an obscenely early shower can make you question the meaning of life. However, I am not alone. Apparently getting up too early can be bad for your health. I'm bringing it up at the next staff meeting, with the suggestion that I am allowed to start at 10 instead of 8. For my continued good mental health, of course.