Grandibles

Hail and well met! May the full moon shine down it’s bleesings upon your left shins and cause you and your partners to smucktate avialy. Or something.

I’m very, very bored. I had my sister down visiting me this week (or up rather, I do live in the mountains after all…) and it has been most pleasant, going as far as making me smile on no less than four occassions in one week- a veritable smorgasbord or happiness by my usual cynical standings. Anyway, she’s gone now so the silence has become all the more deafening. So deafening that I left my house at 7:50 on a Saturday to come and open the shop up to give me some form of purpose. Or porpoise. Some Sort of Porpoise… I have GOT to form a band with that name at some point! Just imagine the possibilities!

Additionally, one of the local ragamuffins that I’m quite fond of went into hospital yesterday with some sort of asthma-aids and has been there all night. I tried asking her brother about her, but he is a complete fucktard and wouldn’t answer questions because he said he wasn’t interested. I don’t like him- he wheres a cowl all the time so you can’t see his face. Attention seeking eejit.

Anyhoo, next week I have the hoy and jappiness of taking care of thirty-odd screaming kids (or thirty odd, screaming kids if you will…). This is not ideal. Though I do enjoy doing the job when I get there I have many moments where I really would rather roll over and ignore the foghorn wailing of my alarm clock… not that I have a wailing alarm clock… Infact I have my phone playing One Winged Angel of which I am rather fond… even still, I hate leaving my bed. I wish someone would pay me for sleeping. Or sleeping with them… I may have to become a prostitute. All applications to use me as a ho should be sent written on the back of a £20 note. Applications must be made through Carolyn, Lianne or Lara as they are the only people who have my address. They will vet you for form and function, give me a report on your client suitability and I will get back to you in three to six weeks. Or I could get an office job. Bleugh.

Growing up is really horrendously dull… each day that passes is leading me more and more down this line of thought. Yesterday I had a margerine fight with a member of staff and squirted another one in the crotch (with a water gun…) so she looked like she’d wet herself. Rather than joining in with the fun the staff were having the kids stared on in disbelief… what the hell has happened to kids? I would have leapt at the chance to rub margerine all over the face and hair of an attractive young lady when I was ten- they are all growing up due to bloody society. Gordon Brown and Tony Blair should be analy assaulted by a killer whale until June, it’s the only answer. On a slight tangent, I heard that sperm whales are so called due to the white marks on the tops of ther foreheads looking liked crusty patches of sperm. It’s called spermicetti. How endlessly vulgar is that!

Anyhoo, I must now leave thee due to shop based tasks.

Adios amigos.