Guess Who’s Coming To My House This Afternoon?

 

Last night I was bored and lonely again so I got my Ouija board out, hoping for a nice chat with someone interesting. Did I get a nice chat with someone interesting? Did I fuck. I never seem to get anyone interesting – the other night (Sunday, I think), I was talking to a woman from Jarrow, a seamstress who went on and on about sewing and all things to do with sewing – stitches, seams, pleats, materials, threads, needles, thimbles, tape measures, scissors, eyesight, bleeding fingers, the price of candles. NOTHING ELSE. She didn’t even tell me her name. And she began every sentence with “Eeeee, pet,” which is fine when you’re SPEAKING or TYPING it but spelling out each letter of “Eeeee pet,” when the glass has to return to the centre between letters and you haven’t even started your sentence yet is BEYOND BORING for the person at the other end (ME).

I wanted to talk to someone WITH SOMETHING TO SAY. But I always get boring people.

WHY DO I ALWAYS GET BORING PEOPLE?

Where are the FIRST DINOSAUR DIGGER-OUTERS? MARY? GIDEON? RICHARD? What are you doing, why won’t you talk to me?

Where are the people who know my future? MOTHER SHIPTON, COME OUT, COME OUT, WHERE EVER YOU ARE!!

Or a good headshrinker (not Freud)?

Or a maths genius who can work out the winning lottery numbers for next week?

Fuck knows where they are, all I know is THEY’RE NOT ON MY OUIJA BOARD.

So who did I end up talking to out of ALL THE DEAD PEOPLE IN DEAD PEOPLE WORLD?

Little Emily, that’s who. She started fucking about with the glass before I’d placed all the letters out.

D

centre

O

centre

T

centre

T

centre

Y

centre

I

centre

T

centre

S

centre

E

centre

M

centre

I

centre

L

centre

Y

centre

and then she moaned for 40 minutes because she couldn’t find an apostrophe (I lost it one night after a conversation with Barbara Taylor Bradford).

While she was moaning about the missing apostrophe, I was puzzling over WHY she was talking to me through the Ouija board. She only lives up the road, the lazy cow, she could have walked down to see me like she always did before she turned into a TRAITOR and went off with that zombie dog-fuck, Kumblant.  I knew she wasn’t ill again, and I knew she wasn’t dead (well, no more dead than she already is) because Branwell would have told me, so it wasn’t that she was UNABLE to come to my house to talk to me – obviously she didn’t WANT to. So why was she hijacking my Ouija board?

I slapped my hand on the arse of the glass to stop her apostrophe whinge.

WHY ARE YOU HIJACKING MY OUIJA BOARD? I asked.

I WANT TO SPEAK TO YOU.

COME AND SEE ME TOMORROW AFTERNOON. 

WILL I BE WELCOME IN YOUR HOUSE?

NOT REALLY BUT TONIGHT I WANT TO TALK TO SOMEBODY WHO ISNT YOU.

EXPECT ME AT THREE OCLOCK.

ALL RIGHT. FUCK OFF NOW. 

AS YOU WISH. GOODNIGHT DOTTY MY DEAR FRIEND.

DEAR FRIEND? 

But she had gone. AND it was too late to start talking to anyone else so I put the Ouija board away, had a few Cumberland sausages for my supper, went for a wee and a wash, brushed my teeth and went to bed.

 

 

She’ll be here in just over an hour and I don’t know what she wants. I spent the morning trying to stay calm but after I’d had my dinner (Cumberland sausage sandwiches so the smell will linger and she’ll realise what she’s been missing) I had a little panic attack, then another, then another, then another, then another, then another. And I can feel another one coming on now so I’m going to crush up a packet of beta-blockers and stir them into a glass of laudanum then hopefully I’ll be able to cope with her when she arrives.

I’ll let you know what happens.

 

 

Marvellous, Miraculous Sticky Notes

 

!wOw!  

I’ve discovered STICKY NOTES! Big bright pink ones! I found them on my desk but I didn’t buy them (I wouldn’t buy PINK ones). They’re BRILLIANT! They stick to paper when they won’t stick to anything else – doors, floors, windows, heads, clothes, cups, ashtrays, ANYTHING! It doesn’t matter how many times you try to stick them to something else, they don’t lose their ability to STICK TO PAPER even when they APPEAR to have lost all their stickiness, NO THEY HAVEN’T, they’re conserving it, they’re saving it for PAPER! But how do they know to conserve their stickiness for paper? And how do they know when they’re ON PAPER and not on wood or metal or plastic or skin?

HOW DO THEY KNOW? 

 

£148m Euromillions Winners Say It Won’t Change Them

 

The couple who won the Euromillions jackpot on Friday were just on the BBC News.

He doesn’t want to give up the music shop he owns.

They MIGHT buy a new house. At the end of the report, the reporter said “they said they won’t let it change them.” Meaning their win.

WHY THE FUCK DID THEY BUY A TICKET IN THE FIRST PLACE THEN?

If you don’t want your life to change DON’T BUY A TICKET. Leave the tickets for those of us who DO want our lives to change.

Am I jealous? YES I FUCKING WELL AM JEALOUS. 

That was MY jackpot.

MY £148M.

Would I have let it change me?

FUCK, YES.

It’s not fair.

 

 

Dotty Talking Therapy © – The Cure For Being Mental

 

I’ve found it! The cure for being mental!

Talking Therapy isn’t a LOAD OF WANK after all! All those gobshite headshrinkers who believe WE WHO ARE MENTAL can talk away the crazy – THEY’RE RIGHT! We can!

But they’re WRONG in their belief that it takes TIME – months and years of appointments and sessions and tears and tick boxes – it DOESN’T TAKE TIME, all it takes is COMMITMENT!

Commit yourself to the belief in what I’m about to tell you in DOTTY TALKING THERAPY© and YOU WILL BE CURED! FOREVER! Yes. FOREVER!

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I’ve hidden my cure down here to trick the SO-CALLED NORMALS who’ll be coming to STEAL IT and GET RID OF IT when they find out that I KNOW WHAT THEY’VE DONE.

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DOTTY TALKING THERAPY ©

 

It consists of one sentence and one sentence only. The sentence should be SAID to (or SHOUTED at if they don’t hear you the first time) EVERYONE YOU COME INTO CONTACT WITH – family, friends, neighbours, colleagues, bosses, doctors, nurses, shopkeepers, children in the street etc etc etc – EVERYONE.

The sentence is –

 

I’M NOT FUCKING MENTAL – YOU ARE.

 

Because it’s TRUE, they ARE. They’re the mental ones, not us. DOTTY TALKING THERAPY©  is based on the theory that EVERY SINGLE ONE of the so-called ‘normal’ people in society have plotted and conspired down the years to make WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL think we are mental when really THEY’RE THE MENTAL ONES.

And the worse thing about what they’ve done is they’ve MADE US BELIEVE IT. We BELIEVE we’re the mental ones, we BELIEVE we have to have the crazy taken away from us, we BELIEVE we need to be CURED OF BEING MENTAL.

 

EVIDENCE

Would we start wars?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we leave whole countries of people to STARVE when we could do something about it?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we allow homelessness to continue?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we allow people with potentially terminal illnesses to NOT BE TREATED WITH DRUGS THAT COULD CURE THEM, BECAUSE THE COST OF THE DRUGS IS HIGH?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

Would we allow ALL THE WRONG THINGS THE SO-CALLED NORMALS DO to continue?

NO WE WOULD NOT.

MURDERERS – How many murderers are found to be insane? VERY FEW compared to the ones who are deemed to be SANE. I never understood that until I invented DOTTY TALKING THERAPY© — they’re ALL fucking mental, as are the JUDGE and the JURY and the SOLICITORS and the BARRISTERS and all the so-called normal people who’ve decided that a MURDERER is SANE but someone who can’t come out of their house, or sings in the street, or has a panic attack in the bank, or can’t get their thoughts straight etc etc is MENTAL. Where’s the logic in that? THERE ISN’T ANY.

 

And that’s just for starters. There are countless examples, from the highest echelons of society to the lowest.

And also –

Would WE zap electrical currents into THEIR brains?

Would WE cut into THEIR brains to perform lobotomies?

Would WE immerse THEM in ice cold baths for hours and hours?

Would WE force nasty drugs into THEM?

 

They use WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL to entertain them. How many books and poems and paintings and sculptures and music and songs and photographs and films and plays and comedies and theories etc etc etc etc would NOT EXIST if they weren’t created by WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL? And inventions. And discoveries. And science. And buildings. HOW DIFFERENT WOULD THE WORLD BE IF WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL WEREN’T IN IT?

 

 

 

WHY have they done this? WHY have they turned it all around and made WE WHO THEY SAY ARE MENTAL BELIEVE WE ARE MENTAL?

I don’t know. Because they can. Because we LET them. Because they’re the MAJORITY. Because we’re not as CRUEL as them, we don’t understand their DUPLICITIES and their CORRUPT MOTIVES and their INHERENT SAVAGENESS that dictates all their thoughts and actions.

 

So here’s the cure for being mental. Tell them, each and every one of them –

 

I’M NOT FUCKING MENTAL – YOU ARE.

 

AND BELIEVE WHAT YOU’RE SAYING.

Because it’s TRUE.

 

 

A Nice Letter To Dotty’s Future Dead Second Husband

 

Dear Future Dead Second Husband,

 

How are you? Comfortable, I hope. Are they looking after you? If you don’t mind I need you to answer a few questions –

1) Are you a single zulti-zillionaire with no family, a minimum age of 99, a maximum age of no maximum- the older the better?

2) Have you spent your whole life building your fortune and now you’re lonely with no one to talk to except your nurses and the cleaners?

3) Do you want to die happy in the knowledge that your businesses and your mansions and your islands and the FUCKING LOVELY wordly goods you worked so hard for have been left to someone who will love and appreciate and cherish them for the rest of her life? 

4) Can you answer positively to the above questions?

Yes?

Then HELLO, DARLING.

We can get married NOW. It’s daft to wait when we’re so deeply in love. I can read to you and we can watch Dexter together when you’re awake. I’ll make sure the nurses give you whatever drugs you need and when you get close to your time I’ll make them keep you sedated so you don’t know what’s happening because I LOVE YOU and I’d hate to see you suffer.

 

Lots of love,

Dotty xxxx

 

P.S. Send me a credit card, I need to buy a wedding dress and some shoes and some flowers and a castle for us to get married in. Darling.

 

 

You’ve Given Me The Fame, Now Give Me The Fortune

 

I don’t know whether or not you’ve noticed that on my sidebar I have a little note giving instructions to the Press and the paparazzi. The little note has been there for a long time but if today is anything to go by I think I’ll soon need to make it more prominent at the top of the sidebar.

Because I AM FAMOUS.

ME.

LITTLE DOTTY.

LITTLE DOTTY HEADBANGER WHO NEVER COMES OUT OF HER HOUSE.

FAMOUS.

LIKE A FILM STAR!

 

Today, there have been not one, not two, but THREE WHOLE POSTS dedicated to ME AND MY BLOGS.

THREE!

Can you believe it? I can’t.

 

First, lovely Lisa did this lovely post  –

LISA’S POST 

 

Then lovely Chris did this lovely reblog –

CHRIS’S REBLOG

 

And lovely Lisa’s friend, lovely Miss1sue did this lovely post after she joined the Big Blog –

MISS1SUE’S POST

 

AND THAT’S NOT ALL –

Lovely Dorothy did something with her Facebook

THIS IS A LINK TO HER BLOG, NOT HER FACEBOOK 

 

And lovely Rachel did a pingback on her excellent lovely post about how she beat WORDY BLOCK.

RACHEL’S POST ABOUT HOW SHE BEAT WORDY BLOCK

 

I’ve never had so many lovely things in one day.

FAMOUS.

ME!

Just call me DOTTY JOLIE.

Or MISS JOLIE if you don’t know me well.

 

 

No Post Today Because I Can’t Be Arsed. I Can’t Do A One Word Post Because I’ve Already Done One, I Can’t Do A Picture Because It Isn’t Sunday, So You’ll Have To Make Do With NOTHING

Suspicious Things Happening On My Street

 

It’s pissing it down outside. AGAIN. I don’t mind that it’s cool but WHERE’S THE FUCKING SUN? And what happened to GLOBAL WARMING? Where did that go?

 

Yesterday afternoon I was having a peep out of my window to see if the white van that keeps parking across the road, three houses down, had come back (it had, and it’s still there). I was watching it intently when I happened to spy, out of the corner of my third eye, a scratty, scrawny, soggy-skirted, basket-carrying little woman standing in the rain, all the way up the street on the other side of the road, staring at my house. It was HER. Little Emily. The pygmy dog-man wasn’t with her, not that I could see anyway – he might have been hiding behind the privet hedge of the nearest garden but I don’t think so, there were no signs of her talking to anyone.

I wanted a closer look but in the seconds it took me to reach across to the bookcase for my binoculars, take the caps off and move back the curtain again, she had gone.

What did she want? Why didn’t she come to the door? And what was in the basket?

Branwell is due this afternoon, I’m going to make him tell me what’s going on. If he won’t fess up I’ll kneecap him with dead ex-Simon’s cricket bat.

 

OY, WORDPRESS, I WANT MY STATS PAGE BACK ON MY DASHBOARD

 

My Stats pages (on both blogs) have disappeared, all I get when I click on them are mangled pages but no stats. It’s either a punishment aimed solely at me for calling WordPress a pile of shite and a set of tossers this morning, or they’ve finally done what they’ve been saying for ages they were going to do and moved the Stats to that stupid separate page along with the Freshly Pressed shite and the shitey Readers that don’t work and the fucked-up Topics thing that doesn’t work either.

I don’t understand why they’ve done it. Why move the stats away from the Dashboard? It’s the same as taking the mileometer from a car’s dashboard and putting it in the boot, forcing the driver to get out and walk round the back of the car whenever he wants to see how fast he’s going. IT’S FUCKING STUPID. It’s the stupidest idea the stupid ideas people have had since they had the stupid idea of shagging up the Topics.

I am not amused.

 

Where’s My Fucking Badge?

 

WordPress, you’re a pile of shite. Where’s my 400 followers badge? I’m waiting for it, checking every morning, looking forward to seeing it BUT IT ISN’T THERE and now I’m up to 416 followers and it still hasn’t arrived in the little drop-down notification fuck-box at the top of the page. WHY CAN’T I HAVE IT? Why won’t you give it to me so I can do my 400 followers showing-off post? I can’t do my 400 followers showing-off post without it in case everyone thinks I’m telling fibs when I’m NOT.

Is it because you think that when a blog reaches 400 followers the blog writer doesn’t give a shite about getting a badge? Well we DO give a shite about getting a badge, just the same as when we reach 100 followers – a badge is a badge AND I WANT MINE.

You’re a set of tossers who don’t know how to do your jobs properly. How do you think BLUE PETER survived all these years? BY GIVING OUT THEIR BLUE PETER BADGE, that’s how. And what about the Queen? If a hero gets a badge for saving lives, and then he goes on to save MORE LIVES she doesn’t NOT give him a badge, does she, she gives him ANOTHER BADGE.

I’ve made my own fucking badge. Stick that up your WordPress and smoke it.

 

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Shitey Sunday Picture Post – This Is Very Funny If I Do Say So Myself And You Should Look At It And Laugh And Laugh And Laugh

 

I know it’s Saturday, not Sunday, but tomorrow I’ll be watching the Final so I’m doing the Shitey Sunday post today instead. It’s about ANDY MURRAY. Have you heard of him?

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THIS IS ANDY A SPLIT SECOND BEFORE HE SWALLOWED A TENNIS BALL 

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CLOSE YOUR MOUTH, ANDY! CLOSE IT!

DON’T LET IT IN!

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GULP!

GULP!

NO, IT’S STUCK.

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AND THEN IT WENT DOWN A BIT – BUT IT GOT STUCK

IN HIS THROAT AND HE HAD TO  SPEND AN HOUR

COMMUNICATING WITH THE COSMOS

TO GET IT TO SLIDE ALL THE WAY DOWN

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IT’S A MIRACLE!

THE UNIVERSE ANSWERED HIS PLEAS

AND MADE THE TENNIS BALL PLUMMET STRAIGHT

THROUGH HIS BODY ALL THE WAY DOWN TO HIS CROTCH

AND HE WAS ABLE TO PLAY AGAIN!

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ABRACADABRA!

ALAKAZAM!

HOW THE FUCK DID HE DO THAT???

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“FUCK OFF, I’M NOT TELLING YOU HOW I DID IT!

STOP ASKING ME!

YES, TWAT, I DO HAVE A SPHINCTER.

YOU’RE MENTAL, THE LOT OF YOU.

FUCK OFF AND LET ME CONCENTRATE ON MY GAME

OR I’LL PLAY LIKE SHITE AND THEN I’LL TAKE MY BAT HOME

AND YOU CAN ALL FUCK OFF.”

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GOOD LUCK, ANDY!

WE LOVE YOU!

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Watch Your Balls, Federer – Andy Is A Crack Shot

 

This is what he did to Tsonga today.

Sorry for all the posts, but I had to show you.

He belted the ball back at him, right into his bollocks.

A few seconds later and Tsonga was down.

Someone in the crowd shouted ‘New balls, please!’

And John  McEnroe wanted Hawkeye to judge where the ball had hit.

Good shot, Andy!

In revenge, Tsonga CHALLENGED Andy’s winning shot.

And I’m 100% certain that, during the match when Tsonga was dillying a bit over some balls (not his own), Andy called him a TWAT (my lip-reading skills are fantastic).

 

 

WIMBLEDON, WIMBLEDON, WIMBLEDON – I LOVE ANDY

 

HE’S THROUGH TO THE FINAL!!!!

 

GO ON, ANDY!!

 

DO YOUR COSMIC ORDERING A LITTLE BIT MORE AND YOU’LL WIN!!!

 

 

AND ON SUNDAY MAKE SURE YOU SMASH A SHOT AT FEDERER’S BOLLOCKS

LIKE YOU DID TO TSONGA TODAY!!! HA HA HA HA HA ! THAT WAS FUNNY -

ESPECIALLY WHEN HE WAS CURLED UP ON THE GROUND AND SOMEONE

IN THE CROWD SHOUTED ‘NEW BALLS PLEASE!!’

 

 

 

 

 

HELLO! CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME?

 

These are the floorboards I’m hiding under.

They’re made of wood.

Wood gives you SKELFS.

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This is one of my suits of armour.

I’m wearing it to solve the problem of SKELFS.

It’s not my NICEST suit of armour, but it offers the most protection

against not only SKELFS but SPIDERS and OTHER NASTY THINGS

that live under floorboards. And the matching sword has a FINE slice to it.

I haven’t bothered putting on the chain mail, I don’t need it today,

I’ve worn my WORDY ERROR HAIR-SHIRT instead.

Unless there’s a particularly BIG SKELF waiting for me -

maybe I SHOULD have worn chain mail.

Fuck.

Oh well, it’s too late now.

Can someone pass me a Cumberland sausage sandwich, please?

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Happy 5th July To All Americans

 

Okay, you’ve had long enough with this Independence shite to realise it’s time to come home to Mummy. We’ll have you back under our rule on one condition – you never, ever, ever allow

SIMON FUCK-FACE COWELL

 

or GORDON PLASTIC-FACE RAMSAY

 

to come back to Britain. You can do what you want with them.

In return, we’ll allow you to give us all your money, land, property and apple pie recipes.

Deal??

(you know you want to).

 

I Need A Free Cleaner – All OCD People With Good Cleaning Skills Apply Here

 

The Job – Clean EVERYTHING.

Location – My house.

Hours – As many as you want.

Qualifications – You should know what to do with a bottle of Flash Spray With Bleach and a scourer.

Experience – Well, I’m presuming you’ll be VERY experienced.

Rate of Pay – As many Cumberland sausage sandwiches as you can eat (after you’ve given the cooker a good scrub).

 

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Andy Again

After last night’s BRILLIANT match, here’s Andy Murray again. Just one picture this time, and a link to the

Shitey Sunday Picture Post he starred in a few weeks ago when I got him ready for Wimbledon.

Here’s the link  — ANDY MURRAY  —-

and here’s the picture –

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Hi Di Hi Campers!

I don’t know why I said Hi Di Hi Campers, it’s been going through my head since I got up. Sue Pollard, go away.

I’ve been piddling around on the new blog this morning, making a new front page and doing a post that gives the BLOG STATS of the blog.

‘What?’ I hear you say. ‘But BLOG STATS are secret, never to be seen by eyes that don’t belong to the blog owner!! What trick is this? Why is Dotty displaying her UNMENTIONABLES to all and sundry? Is she mental?’

No, I’m not mental. Well, yes I AM mental, but not in that way. I’m being pro-active in getting YOU to be pro-active – if the stats are a load of shite it means you won’t be getting any clicks to your blog. Simple. And if you can SEE that the stats are a load of shite you might want to help get them up – wheeeeeeeeee – ding-a-ling!

I need a little swig of laudanum.

 

 

 

Shitey Sunday Picture Post – Slimey D. Scameron, The Sea Pig Prime Minister

Slimey D. Scameron is one of the most hated

Prime Ministers Britain has ever known.

This is the story of his life.

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BABY SLIMEY

Slimey D. Scameron was neglected from a very early age.

Left out in the cold in all weathers, not a bonnet to  keep his

tentacles warm, he knew that life would always be a

terrible struggle for him.

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SCHOOLBOY SCAMERON

Waiting for his dinner in the dining hall of his boarding school,

Slimey D. Scameron dreaded the bullying taunts of his classmates.

Every single miserable day, when his dinner arrived and he started

to tuck in to the lovely grub, the name-calling began –

‘Scameron sea-pig the soup-sucker!’

Fat Scameron the sausage snaffler!

‘Gluttony hoggy food-pig!

and every single miserable day he left the dining hall in tears .

Poor Slimey D. Scameron.

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SCAMERON THE STUDENT

Ignored and despised by scholars and professors,

Slimey D. Scameron spent his student years alone.

No wild, druggy parties for Slimey D. Scameron! No floozies!

No flights of fancy! No fun!

Just loneliness and misery and a longing for the day

when he could shoot them all.

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PRIME MINISTER SCAMERON

He didn’t shoot the college up! Slimey D. Scameron found a better

way to get his own back on EVERYONE.

He became the PRIME MINISTER.

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SLIMEY D. SCAMERON WITH THE QUEEN

 And this is Slimey D. Scameron today,

walking companion of The Queen,

SUCCESSFUL and UNTOUCHABLE.

But at night, in bed, he still cries and cries

and sobs and sobs because with all his status

and power PEOPLE STILL CALL HIM NAMES.

Poor, poor Slimey D. Scameron.

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A Boring Dotty Update On Boring Dotty

 

Here I am, boring old me on my boring old lonesome in my boring old house doing boring fuck all. Why am I even writing this boring blog? To see how many people I can bore on a daily basis?

 

This is what’s been happening in my boring life.

1.  I didn’t see Venus, I saw clouds.

2.  Little Emily and Kumblant are revolting, they’re plotting against me, I don’t know what they’re up to. When Branwell brought my laudanum he told me they’ve been talking to each other and KUMBLANT HAS BEEN TO THEIR HOUSE FOR TEA. Fucking traitors. Off with their heads. Good job I’ve got Branwell to spy on them.

3.  The gas men ARE laying a fucking great big pipe up the street, the bendy yellow one must have been something else, and the noise they’ve been making digging up THE WHOLE PAVEMENT is driving me MENTAL. I called the boss of the gas men a dickwad the other day. He didn’t like it but so fucking what, I don’t like his NOISE.

4.  When I can concentrate on anything at all I’ve been playing with Photoshop, trying to make a nice picture.

5.  I hate the word CREVICE. If I hear anyone say it I want to punch them in the throat. It’s a vile word spoken slowly on a sea of spittle by smelly, toothless old men in raincoats – CRRREVISSSSS. And they rub their hands together when they say it. And they leer. STEPTOE, YOU DIRTY, DIRTY MAN, DON’T SAY THAT NASTY WORD EVER AGAIN.

6.  I’ve spent a lot of quality time with my brick.

7.  When the NOISE from outside is too much I’ve been taking the opportunity to practice screaming.

8.  My screaming practice sessions have resulted in me being back on good terms with Dibble. They’ve been to see me twice and both times, like the good, law-abiding citizen I am, I’ve pointed out the gas vehicles illegally parked up and down the street, and also pointed out the fact that Dibble had to WALK a long way from where they had to park their car to my house. I also asked after my ex-boyfriend, Sergeant Sherlock the Druggy (Piggy-Wig), who somehow scoffed a HUGE pile of my Cumberlaudanum sausage sandwiches the last time I saw him, and they told me he’s still on suspension. Good. No one fucks with Dotty and gets away with it.

 

That’s it. Boring. Well, I did warn you.

 

Venus Has A Little Trot Across The Sun

 

This is your last chance to see Venus dawdling across the Sun. We’ll all be dead the next time she comes by.

 

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Jubilee, Jubilee, Jubilee

 

For the Jubilee I’ve made a Photoshop picture, the second one I’ve ever made, and the first one I’ve done without any help. It’s crap but I like it and Kumblant loves it – he got to wear the diamonds. And he was allowed to eat the corgis when we’d finished.

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Dotty’s 200th Post (Don’t Get Excited, It’s Fucking Boring)

 

Here I am! I’m not dead, the gas board haven’t blown me up yet but two days of NOISE was too much. This is the third day and it hasn’t been as bad this afternoon but yesterday they were making a MASSIVE HOLE on the pavement right outside my front garden so they had a BIG DIGGER and a LITTLE DIGGER and a GREAT BIG DRILL and altogether it sounded like they were drilling through my skull (not in a good, trepanning way) to dig a hole in my brain. I had to hide in my tumble dryer. I took my earplugs but I could still hear it all and I took my laptop but I couldn’t concentrate enough to respond to your comments with the intelligent, insightful, deep and meaningful comment replies I always give and I didn’t want to skimp on my usually soaring standards of intellectual conversation with you all (y’all) or I’d have lowered the tone of the whole blog and you’d have had to go elsewhere for your daily dose of profundity and high thinking.

So anyway, this is my 200th post. For someone with wordy block that’s good going, isn’t it? Except it isn’t, really, because I can’t plan anything yet, it’s like wordy block has morphed into WORDY BOGGLE – if I think any further ahead than the post I’m sitting down to write everything in my head goes to SHITE and any attempt to form a cohesive, ordered plan for a story/poem/Great Novel That Will Change The World only serves to dam up ALL the words. The creative bit seems to be coming back IF I DON’T INTERFERE WITH IT but it’s acting like an unrestrained, separated flock of wild, shaggy sheep running free on the moors, galloping from here to there to everywhere with no discipline or purpose to where they go or what they do. A sheepdog is needed to round them up and pen them in but WHERE DO I FIND MY SHEEPDOG? WHERE IS MY SHEP?

Fuck it, that’s me done for now. I’m going to cook another big pile of Cumberland sausages because the gas has to be turned off again all day tomorrow so they can shove their big pipe up the street – no remarks, please, that’s what they’re going to do, I don’t know how else to word it because the twatting big drill’s started up again and I need to SCREEEEAAAMMM!!!

 

Dotty Was Nearly GASSED And BLOWN TO BITS…

 

… and it WASN’T MY FAULT this time. The gas board have been replacing all the pipes on the street and they had to dig a hole in my garden path right next to the house – NOISY NOISY NOISY even with earplugs. A while after they’d finished I thought I could smell gas but I thought, ‘Nah, Dotty, you’re having yourself on, you’re imagining it because the gas board are outside.’

A bit later I started with a little headache so I went to the back door for some fresh air and a ciggie. When I went back into the hallway IT STANK OF GAS, really strong, so I rang Lottie who came round and asked a gasman what was happening and guess what the fucker said? He said ‘Oh yeah, there’s a big leak. The drill hit the pipe. Someone’s coming to cap it off.’

So now I’ve NO GAS.

And the FUCKING FUCKERS NEARLY KILLED ME and they didn’t even have the decency to knock and tell me I was going to die.

Customer care, my arse. More like Customer MURDER.

 

 

(I wouldn’t have answered if they HAD knocked, but that’s not the point).

 

Dotty v Blog – Round 1 (DING-DING)

 

The day before yesterday me and Blog had a big argument. Blog started it by accusing me of feeding it with junk food – Cumberland sausages, McCain Chippy Chips, Hobnobs etc etc – and making it FAT.

‘I want healthy food. Skinny blog food,’ it said. ‘If you don’t feed me properly I’ll grow too big to move and then I’ll POP.’

‘Eh? What are on you about?’

‘What you’re doing to me is abuse. You’re abusing me – you’re a FEEDER, one of those nasty sadists who spend their day shovelling junk food into the mouths of the obese to make them even more obese.’

‘Shut up. I write posts for you, I thought that’s what you wanted me to do.’

‘You write SHITE – piles and piles of greasy, gristly, fatty SHITE and you force it down my throat EVERY SINGLE DAY. Sometimes TWICE a day. It makes me SICK. Literally. I want a gastric bypass.’

‘Are you kidding me?’

‘In future, two out of three posts go in the Trash instead of being Published. Do it or I’ll tick all the Comments boxes again. And I’ll make Spam out of your Follower’s comments.’

‘You just said you don’t want to eat junk food.’

‘Spam isn’t junk food, it’s a nourishing staple of all blogs.’

‘So you’re blackmailing me?’

‘Yes.’

‘WELL FUCK OFF AND STARVE THEN. I won’t write anything at all.’

‘Right. Good. You fuck off as well.’

So I did.

 

I didn’t write anything. I stayed away, I didn’t even log in. If that’s how Blog felt about me, accusing me of being a FEEDER, saying I’m abusing it – well, it could go and take a flying fuck to itself. I was upset, heartbroken – it’s not nice being accused of terrible things when all you’ve tried to do is your best. So I looked at other things on the internet instead but I was like one of those little floating dots you get in your eye when you’ve been looking at the sun too long, drifty, wandering, pointless. I cried a bit (a lot).

When I turned my laptop on this morning I had no intention of going anywhere near Blog. I was going to go back to

PEOPLE OF WALMART

to look at more of their photos of nice Americans, but then I thought I might spot LISA buying her water, and I realised I was missing you all (y’all).

So I logged in. Blog was crying. Sobbing. ‘Dotty, I’m hungry,’ it said. ‘Feed me.’

‘No. I haven’t come to see you, I’ve come to see the people.’

‘Please, please, I’m starving, my belly’s in spasm, I’m wasting away, I’ll die if you don’t feed me. You want me to die, don’t you, you don’t love me any more! WAAAAAGGHHH!’

‘If I wanted you to die I could kill you with one click.’

‘Please, please, please, please, please.’

‘Stop begging, it’s undignified. And wipe your nose.’

‘PLEASE??

‘Where’s my apology?’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I don’t care how fat I get, I just want you to FEED ME!’

 

So here it is, Blog – your fucking dinner. I’m still in two minds as to whether I want it to fill you up and keep you going till next time, or whether I want you to choke on it and die.

 

I KNOW HOW TO STOP GETTING COMMENTS EMAILS WITHOUT UNTICKING THE BOX

 

Do you want to know how to stop getting all those emails when you forget to untick the box on blogs that haven’t had the thingy disabled?

 

 

 

 

Do you?

 

 

 

 

 

 

I know how to.

 

 

 

 

 

I did some investigating while I can’t concentrate enough to write a post.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you want me to tell you?

 

 

 

 

Or are you okay as you are?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Have you sorted it out?

 

 

 

 

 

 

Do you always remember to untick the box?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HA HA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Okay, enough tormenting.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Go to Reader — Blogs I Follow and at the bottom of the left hand column you’ll see, in small faded letters –

‘MANAGE EMAIL DELIVERY SETTINGS’

click on it, and down the list you’ll see a ‘FOLLOW COMMENTS’ box – untick it, and VOILA, no more emails.

 

 

Don’t all thank me at once.

 

The Shitey Sunday Dotty Picture Post – # 1

 

La la la la la. Bored, bored, bored. Nothing to write, AGAIN.

What is it about Sundays that makes them so shitey?

Here’s a picture of a pigowl.

He’s lovely, isn’t he?

I don’t like his glasses though.

He should have gone to SpecSaver.

TWIT TWOOOOOOOIINNK
TWIT TWOOOOOOOIINNK

Dotty In A Bloggy Dither – Help!

 

I need to catch up with reading blogs but I’ve followed so many good blogs I’m becoming overwhelmed by it all. I’ve got a big pile of emails of posts to go through, and I’ve got my favourites that I love to go and read two or three posts at a time, and I’ve got the blogs I look at on the WordPress Reader, and I’ve got the new blogs I’ve followed and want to read more of because I like the look of them, and I’ve got the blogs of people who’ve followed me to check out.

I FEEL SO FUCKING GUILTY that I’m not being a good bloggy friend when you’re all so nice to me and keep coming back. And I feel guilty because I might miss you out and then you’ll think I don’t like your blog, or you’ll think I’m being an ignorant cow when I’m not deliberately ignoring you I’m just finding it really, really hard to keep up – to the point where I didn’t want to come online this morning because I knew all the posts I missed on my day off yesterday were waiting for me, and those from the day before that I hadn’t got round to, and the day before that, and the day before that. And I know myself too well, if something I love doing starts to become a chore I jack it in, drop it, bye bye hard thing to do, and that’s it, I never go back to it – but I don’t want to stop doing this, I love everything about blogging (except WordPress giving me a new personality).

How do you manage to keep up without spending every minute of every day online? And without feeling guilty and horrible for not visiting everyone’s blogs?

 

I Am Not Amy, I Am Not Amy, I Am Not Amy

 

No one else seems to be Amy, just me.

I appear as Amy when I comment on a post using the comment box, even on this, my own blog where I have to MODERATE the comment, but when I reply in the Comments section of the Dashboard, I’m Dotty again.

My gravatar picture still appears as Dotty.

I can still Like things as Dotty.

So if I comment on your blog I might come through as Amy.

I think it’s a glitch. Or I’ve gone completely mental.

I know which one I’d bet on.

 

 

What The Fuck Have They Done To The Comments Now???????

 

I can’t comment on anyone’s blog without it coming up with a STUPID NEW THING that posts my comment as AMY!

And a log in box.

WHO THE FUCK IS GOING TO LOG IN EVERY TIME THEY WANT TO COMMENT??

NO ONE, THAT’S WHO.

 

FUCKING IDIOT FUCKARSES

 

 

Dotty Headbanger – Namer Of Babies

 

I  am touched and honoured. I am close to tears of happiness and joy. I have been blessed.

 

I have named a baby.

 

A beautiful little one year old baby who has just had his 1st birthday party.

 

THE NAME I HAVE GIVEN HIM IS…

 

SAUSAGE

 

and in a minute I can go to bed happy and maybe get some sleep and think about how I can get his mother to change his surname to CUMBERLAND.

 

CLICK HERE TO GO TO KATHY’S BLOG TO SEE HOW IT HAPPENED

 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, SAUSAGE, YOU LITTLE LOVELY.

A birthday gift for Sausage.

 

Bank Holiday Sunshine Should Be Banned

 

It’s Bank Holiday Monday and it’s raining as it always does on a Bank Holiday, if it didn’t rain on a Bank Holiday the sky would cave in and we’d all die. But this morning it wasn’t raining, it was sunny and bright and the sun must have done something to my brain because suddenly I SAW THE TRUE STATE OF MY HOUSE – the carpets and lino need hoovered/washed/swept; the cupboards, the cooker, the washer, the dryer, the fridge, the freezer, the doors, the skirtings need washed down; EVERYTHING needs dusted; the bathroom needs a scrub – the WHOLE HOUSE needs a clean, it’s fucking bogging, it’s like A DIRTY TRAMP’S HOUSE. Most years I’ll have already spring-cleaned everything by this time but sometimes, like this year, I don’t notice how manky it’s become even though I’m here all the time until BAM – a little light goes on in my head and I see it all.

Not that I don’t occasionally notice it building up. If I’m walking from the living room to the kitchen I’ll sometimes see the dust at the edges of the hallway carpet and (detachedly and fleetingly) think to myself ‘Ooooo, that’s disgusting, someone should clean that,’ but the second I stop looking at it, poof, any thought of it’s gone from my head, disappeared like it’s never been, and I forget all about it until next time I happen to notice it.

I should be gearing myself up to do a spring clean but I can’t – there’s SO MUCH TO DO. I tried reading my own advice on housework (see Dotty Does Her Housework) to see if I made any sense, and yes I do make sense, prioritising is what you should do if it’s all a bit too overwhelming and you don’t know where to start – but how do I prioritise what needs to go on the PRIORITY LIST? And where do I find the motivation to do a list in the first place? And where have I put the notepad I use for lists, the long one with different coloured pages? Because if I can’t find it I can’t write a list because LISTS HAVE TO BE WRITTEN IN THE LIST NOTEPAD. And how do I remember why the fuck I was looking for my list notepad to begin with?

And that’s before I get started on the intolerable noise level of the Dyson and the fact that it’ll be PURE AND UTTER TORTURE for me to use it for the time it would take to clean the carpets.

 

 

And look at the state of the garden!!!!

 

 

It’s all too complicated, too, too complicated.

 

 

I’m glad it’s raining like it should on a Bank Holiday – the world is nice and dull again.

 

 

What was I writing about?

 

If You’ve Been Getting Loads Of Commenty Emails…

 

… click on the link to Roly’s blog and he’ll tell you how to stop getting them. All the emails I was getting were doing my napper in before I read this.

Sarchasm2

 

 

 

 

A Zen Dotty Haik-Sen-Blogu

 

Dotty Headbanger

has three hundred followers.

Can you believe it?

 

Actually, wait -

I have three hundred and one -

I’M FUCKING GOBSMACKED!!!

 

Dotty Film Review – Coraline

NASTY, NASTY FILM

What a nasty, creepy little film this is. I like creepy animated films – Tim Burton is brilliant – but this film is not only nasty and creepy, it’s nastily creepy and creepily nasty – it’s fucking HORRIBLE and I don’t mean a good horrible like a good horrible horror film can be, I mean HORRIBLE HORRIBLE like something a psycho sicked up and left to fester.

And it’s for CHILDREN. It’s meant for CHILDREN.

Unbelievable.

DON’T LET YOUR KIDS WATCH IT, MOTHERS or they’ll end up severely traumatised and disturbed and THEY WILL HATE AND FEAR AND MISTRUST YOU FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIVES.

I can’t see the point of the film – there IS no point unless it’s a sadistic one aimed at fucking up the minds of children (and adults). It looks to me like whoever made it is a MOTHER-HATING, CHILD-HATING MISOGYNISTIC SICK FUCK.

HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE HORRIBLE.

French and Saunders – shame on you.

 

Score  –   minus 500 out of 10

 

The Dotty Postal Strike

I’ll batter SCABS round the head with my placard if they try to write a post for my blog. DON’T DO IT.

 

I’m on strike.

 

These are my demands –

More pay (I’ve just bought a nice little Munch piece and it set me back a bit) 

Better working conditions for when I write my posts which means I need someone to come and clean my house

More fag breaks

More coffee breaks

A longer Cumberland sausage dinner hour

A BIG BONUS if I get more than 20 Likes on a post

A FUCKING WHOPPING BONUS if I get more than 20 Comments on a post

 

 

I’ve been trying to remember the SCAB CHANT.

I think it goes like this —

SCAB SCAB SCAB SCAB SCAB

DIRTY FUCKING SCAB

FUCK OFF SCAB

YOU SCAB

(repeat many times)

 

 

The Unbearable Shiteness Of Being Mental

 

In the old days of Magnus Magnusson being quizmaster on Mastermind he used to say ‘I’ve started so I’ll finish,’ if the buzzer interrupted his delivery of a question. Well good for you, Magnus, and everyone else who can see things through to completion because I fucking well can’t.

It goes like this –

I’ve started so I’ll finish.

I’ve started and there’s a slight possibility I won’t finish when I want to finish.

I’ve started and I’ll finish tomorrow.

I’ve started and I’ve got a quarter of the way through but I don’t know what to do next.

I’ve started and the complications are coming in thick and fast.

I’ve started and I’ve ballsed it right up somewhere along the line but I don’t know where.

I’ve started and I’M TRYING MY FUCKING BEST, WHAT MORE DO YOU WANT?

I’ve started and waffle, waffle, waffle, blah, blah, blah.

I’ve started and I’ve lost all interest in it, it’s boring me.

I’ve started and I’ll file it away till my brain starts working again.

I’ve started and I’ll NEVER, EVER finish because I NEVER FINISH ANYTHING I’VE STARTED.

 

Why do I even bother?

 

EDIT EDIT EDIT – I forgot to add this one –

I’ve started and I’ve deleted it.

 

 

 

 

A Dotty Day Out – Adventures With Branwell (Part 1)

 

Yesterday morning I was in a strange double mood, good because the weather was Spring-like, bad because I wanted to go to my MEMORIAL BENCH. I posted a post asking if someone would please lend me their TELEPORTER and I was so grateful and surprised by all the positive replies that I found my little going-out rucksack and filled it with the things I need for going out – Cumberland sausages, 5 bottles of laudanum, 4 packs of beta-blockers, bottle of Diet Coke, bottle of water, hairbrush, purse, Nokia Hard Bastard, and the little present that Scotty bought me. Then I opened the back door and sat down on the lino, as close to the outside as I could get, and I waited. I waited for a long, long time. A long, long, long, long time.

Nobody came.

 

 

I don’t know what time it was when I heard footsteps coming round the side of the house. I jumped up and nearly fell back down again – my right leg gave way, it must have gone to sleep because of how I’d been sitting (cross-legged like a Yogi). It was only Branwell though, happy for a change, so happy the smile almost skipped off his face.

“Dotty, sweet Dotty! What brings you such sadness on this glorious day of splendiferous sunshine?”

I burst into tears and told him.

“No, no, no, come along. Weep not, my chickling, for here am I, Branwell the Magnificent, come to your rescue, sans white charger but with love and friendship uncurbed. Off we go, off we go.”

And he took my keys out of the door, grabbed my hand and pulled me OUTSIDE before I realised what was happening, then he locked the door, took my hand again, and away we went.

 

 

The street was heaving with PEOPLE, shouting bickering squabbling laughing braying PEOPLE, a polarised muddle of the wealthy middle classes posturing and preening their way round the shops, and the dirty, thin and stinking poor. I couldn’t take it all in, there was too much bustle and noise – beggars called out for pennies; women argued with stall-holders, trying for a bargain that wouldn’t happen; scrappy, raggy children ran to and fro, ducking and dodging; a wool-worker coughed and hawked up a great glob of blackness from his lungs and spat it out right in front of me; barrows and carts clattered on the cobbles; horses whinnied and snorted; dogs barked; a handbell clanged and clanged – and Branwell whisked me through it all in seconds, the stench of sewage and sickness and cooked meat and rotten fruit and unwashed bodies so strong I could taste it.

“Hang on, where are we going?” I asked when we’d slowed to a trot and the sounds of the street weren’t so loud.

“Refreshments!”

“Eh?”

“A jar of cheering sweetness, my dear. Your face resembles the sad arse of a sow due for the slaughterhouse. O wretched maid of long torment, your smile would set my heart content. But woe is you and woe is me, diddly dum and fiddly fee. Ha ha ha ha ha.”

“Shut up, div. Tell me where we’re going.”

“There!”

And he pointed to the inn a few steps ahead of us.

“I’m not going in.” My heart was thumping.

“Yes, you are!”

And he pulled me to the door, kicked it open and dragged me inside.

It was so dull and smokey in there I had to blink loads of times before I could see. The room was small and dingy; brown walls, thick sawdust on the floor. A man with massive, black mutton chop whiskers stood behind the bar. Just two other people were there, an old man sitting in one corner of the bench seat that ran across the back wall and down one side of the room, and a boy collecting glasses from the tables.

“Dawson! Two jars!” Branwell shouted, though we couldn’t have been six feet away from the bar. He led me to a table next to the only window in the room but the panes of  glass were so thick I couldn’t see out.

“Sit, sit!” Branwell gestured at the bench with a grand sweep of his arm. He sat down next to me, took his little box of snuff from his coat pocket, opened it and offered it to me.

I shook my head, “Eeew, no thanks.”

He took a big pinch and sniffed it up one nostril then the other. Quick as you like, he whipped out his hanky and started sneezing into it. “That’s better,” he said, his eyes gleaming.

“That’s fucking disgusting.”

He laughed. “No worse than many things.”

The boy brought the drinks to us on a tray, two great tankards of beer. It tasted so strong I had to sip it. Branwell downed half of his in one go.

“What are we doing here, Branwell?”

“Being merry! Sup your porter and cheer up. Have you eaten yet? I am ravenous, starved, I could eat a scabby dog. Dawson!”

“Aye, sir?”

“What’s cooking?”

“Mutton, sir. Broth.”

“Two plates, then. And bread, but only if it is warm. I want none of your mould at my table.”

“Aye, sir.”

The broth was lovely, full of big chunks of fresh meat and veg. The bread was even lovelier, soft and springy and warm. I sneaked a handful of Cumberland sausages out of my rucksack and passed a couple to Branwell. I put mine in a slice of bread and had the best Cumberland sausage sandwiches I’ve ever tasted.

“How’s little Emily today?” I asked when we’d finished eating.

“Still weak. Although your medicine appears to have done the trick. She was up and about this morning, at her desk rummaging through papers. Charlotte scolded her.” He rolled his eyes, sucked in his cheeks, jumped out of his seat and stood in front of the table, his hands clasped together in front of him – “Sister, sister, what ARE you thinking? Shoo, shoo, back to bed!”

I couldn’t stop laughing. He sounded just like her. “She’s not that bad, is she?”

He sat down. “At times she is a terrible harridan, Dotty. Terrible. There are certain particulars that should be kept within the family but quite honestly, I am at my wits end with her antics.”

“Why, what has she done?”

“She burnt many of my writings. Onto the fire, cast into the flames as though they were words infernal, penned by the Devil himself.”

What could I say to that? I knew she’d done some burning – after little Emily died she burnt loads of her poems and edited loads of others (little Emily told me), but I didn’t know she’d burnt Branwell’s stuff too. Before I could think what to say he said,

“They take me for a fool. The Great Published Brotherhood of Whispering Bells. They think I am blind to their secret.”

“What secret?”

He picked up his tankard but he’d emptied it. He banged it down on the table. “Published! They are published and yet they lie to me that they are not, and they continue in their lies day after day. I am not to be told their news for fear it will send me far into a mad wretchedness of mental agonies from which I shall not return.”

I stayed silent. So did he, after he’d shouted for the boy to bring him a refill. I took my Nokia Hard Bastard out to see what time it was but it wouldn’t turn on properly, no signal.

After a while he let out a big sigh. He sat up straight and turned to me.

“Accept my heartfelt apologies, Dotty, my friend. I am a ranting dolt, an angered berk who should know better. I promise I shall not allow our day to be further marred by talk or thoughts of my own grievances when my intentions are to bring a smidge of light and happiness to us both. We, the soul-sick, mired in woe…”

“Shut up, you rhyming twat.” I gave him a punch on the arm.

“Are you ready to move on to the next stage of our adventure?” he asked.

“What is it?”

He smiled, a great big beamy smile, and then he tapped me on the nose with his finger. “Wait and see. Wait and see.”

 

 

(TO BE CONTINUED)

 

Moody Monday – Can I Borrow Your Teleporter, Please?

 

After a wild weekend of pelting rainy rain and cold windy wind, the sun is shining, the temperature is up a bit and this morning feels like Spring. And I want to go and see my MEMORIAL BENCH

(CLICK HERE FOR MEMORIAL BENCH POST)

but I can’t because there’s no one to take me.

What I need, more than anyone in the history of the world has ever ever needed anything, is a TELEPORTER. Do any of you have one I can borrow? Please? It doesn’t have to be a fancy one with loads of dials and knobs and bells and whistles, all I want it to do is WHOOOOSH me up to my MEMORIAL BENCH and take me back home again when I get cold.

I WANT TO GO OUT

but to go out means PEOPLE and to go out with the aim of getting to my MEMORIAL BENCH where there are NO PEOPLE I’d have to encounter LOTS OF PEOPLE and I can’t do that because I have PEOPLE PHOBIA and then I’d have to get home again from my MEMORIAL BENCH where there are NO PEOPLE which means encountering LOTS OF PEOPLE once again, so it’s not just ONCE I’d have to encounter LOTS OF PEOPLE, it’s TWICE.

TELEPORTER.

Can I borrow it?

Or an INVISIBILITY CLOAK?

Like I’ve said before, the only person I know with an INVISIBILITY CLOAK is Harry Potter and I’m STILL writing and writing to the SCROOGEY LITTLE SCROTE but he won’t reply to my emails. WHY? He doesn’t NEED his INVISIBILITY CLOAK any more, why won’t he let me have it? That’s what being a fucking child celebrity brat has done for him, gone straight to his HEAD and given him DELUSIONS OF GRANDEUR like he’s the GODKING OF ALL FILMS AND OF THE WHOLE FUCKING WORLD when really he couldn’t act his way out of a soggy paper bag. DICKHEAD.

So can I borrow your TELEPORTER, please?

I won’t break it. I’ll look after it.

I’ll make you a HEAP of Cumberland sausage sandwiches.

And I’ll let you have ANYTHING YOU WANT FROM ANY OF MY COLLECTIONS (except my books).

AND you’ll be the FIRST and ONLY person in Bloggyland to SEE WHAT I LOOK LIKE and to COME INSIDE MY HOUSE where you can wait for me to come back and if you get bored you could have a little flick round with the duster to keep you occupied.

PLEASE?

PRETTY PLEASE?

PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON IT?

PRETTY PLEASE WITH SUGAR ON IT AND A CHERRY ON TOP?

 

The Three Red Bins Of Blogging Award (The Best Award I’ve Made Today)

 

I’ve been bored out of my skull today waiting for the universe to die so I’ve made a new award AND IT’S A NICE AWARD because I thought I’d better be nice for a change in case there IS a god.

This is my new award

 

See how nice I’ve been? I think I’ve been EXCEPTIONALLY NICE, nice enough to get me into HEAVEN if there IS a god.

There are two requirements to having this award -

1 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND THEN PRESS LIKE

2 — You have to CLICK ON THIS LINK AND ADD YOUR BLOG

 

If you’ve already done these two things you are BRILLIANT and I award you my new award which is a very, very classy award, if I do say so myself. If you haven’t already done these two things GO AND DO THEM.

When (notice I’m not saying ‘if’) you put it on your own site, you can set your own conditions to manipulate your readers into doing what you want them to do.  

Go forth, my acolytes, and continue being brilliant.

 

Little Emily Is Dying And Dotty Might Have Destroyed The Universe (If I Have – Sorry Everyone)

 

She’s had a relapse, a bad one. Branwell came last night, but they don’t need me to go up there because Charlotte and Anne are home again. I’m so worried about her I’ve done something I probably shouldn’t have done – I gave Branwell my emergency course of antibiotics that I keep for emergencies and I told him to sneak them to her at the correct times. Like I said, I probably shouldn’t have given them to him but I can’t stand the thought of her being so ill when the very medicine that could make her better is sitting in my medicine cupboard doing nothing. 

But the big question I’ve been asking myself since is – might I be fucking about with TIME and FATE and HISTORY? Might the universe POP or IMPLODE or TURN UPSIDE DOWN or FLOAT AWAY or something just as devastating if little Emily doesn’t stay ill and die when she’s supposed to? Who knows – I don’t know and you don’t know either, the only people who profess to know are the UNIVERSE BOFFINS and all they know is how to talk a load of SCIENTIFIC WORDY SHITE about their THEORIES. But really they don’t know any more than we do – they’re just GUESSING in their SCIENTIFIC UNIVERSE BOFFIN ways of guessing and getting paid a fucking great shedload of money to do so.

Why are there no UNIVERSE BOFFINS who specialise in COMMON SENSE? For instance, when they prattle on about the BALLOON THEORY – I’ve never heard one of them ask ‘What’s on the OUTSIDE of the balloon?’ because common sense says the balloon has to expand into SOMETHING. And what colour is the balloon? (I hope it isn’t yellow, I don’t like yellow balloons, they make me feel sick.) And why isn’t the balloon DEFLATING like old balloons do if they’ve hidden themselves behind the sofa for a week?

And WHO BLEW THE BALLOON UP IN THE FIRST PLACE?

And did who ever blew it up use one of those BALLOON BLOWING PUMPS or did they blow it up with their lips and their breath?

And WHY did they blow it up?

A birthday? A wedding?

And is there any writing on the balloon?

9 TODAY?

HAPPY 18TH BIRTHDAY?

CONGRATULATIONS (with a little picture of two horseshoes).

It’s all too complicated for my little addled brain to think about. But I’ve affected SOMETHING because WEIRD UNIVERSE TRICKS have already started –

TWO OF MY PENS RAN OUT OF INK THIS MORNING

What are the odds of that happening, eh?

TWO pens, the two pens I use – but I didn’t start using them at the same time, one was older than the other. I’ve left them both sitting on my kitchen worktop so I can try them again later to see if the INK HAS COME BACK because if it DOES come back it means TIME HAS REVERSED ITSELF and I’ll have to prepare myself for my front door de-bricking itself.

 

I’m going to have some Cumberland sausage sandwiches (my last?) and then a big swig of laudanum (my last?) and wait for Branwell to come and tell me how little Emily is doing. IF he comes.

Goodbye, my bloggy friends. It’s been nice knowing you.

 

Why Have Only A Few Of You Added To My New Collection?

 

It’s not fair – WordPress forced me into starting a new collection of Likes on my Notes From A She-Hermit page and only 19 people have contributed to it so far. I don’t care about the other pages and posts, you can never, ever click another Like again if you don’t want, JUST GO AND CLICK THAT ONE.

 

THIS IS A LINK TO THE PAGE I WOULD LIKE YOU TO LIKE, PLEASE 

or I’ll have a MASSIVE panic attack and it’ll be ALL YOUR FAULT

Yes I’m begging – what of it? There’s nothing wrong with begging if begging helps you to COLLECT THINGS.

And now I’m boasting and THANKING YOU FOR LOOKING AT MY BLOG A LOT – it’s just passed 20,000 views.

 

P.S. I’ve solved my elbow problem – I’m wearing protective bike pads and my thick leather motorbike jacket and I’ve got my Shoei crash helmet on in case my elbows get through the pads and the jacket – so now I can go to bed tonight and when I do I’m going to tie a pillow round each elbow to be on the safe side.

 

Look, No Hands – A Post Written By My Elbows

 

I’m going to type today’s post with my elbows because my fingers don’t have anything to say.

 

vria,g aas  is rjugkdouw8jgt476js9yusnm lk s   v awimfqp ufat8u44q90JINIO8Y6RR4EWEFCD  GJN [P[P;LLOI MUO

 

Nope, elbows don’t work.

My laptop doesn’t like it – it won’t stop shouting at me in it’s pingy little laptop voice.

Right elbow knocked me back a page and I had to try again

then one of them brought up my Favourites list

then a big sound options box thing came up and I don’t know what the fuck it was but it looked complicated

then I gave up.

 

 

Ah — wait a minute – look, look – it worked, my elbows wrote something.

ufat8

a message from my elbows

the first ever known message from elbows

like the first communication from aliens

this is a sign.

I don’t know what it’s a sign OF but it’s a sign.

 

ufat8

 

u = me

fat = fat

8 = a picture of what my elbows think I look like

 

oh

 

 

OH

 

 

MY ELBOWS ARE BULLYING ME

THEY HATE ME

THEY WANT TO KILL ME

THE POINTY FUCKERS ARE PLOTTING

 

what are they plotting?

 

what?

 

i don’t know but i bet if they could reach my eyes they’d poke and poke at them and try to poke them out like my eyelashes do when they’re trying to kill me

i cut my eyelashes off

can i cut my elbows off?

how?

i can’t cut them off, can i?

i could do ONE but if i did ONE i’d leave myself defenceless against THE OTHER ONE.

 

 

 

what do i do, what do i do?

 

 

 

i know

 

i’m going to strap them to my knees

my knees are my friends

they’ve NEVER tried to kill me

they’ve never bullied me

they’ve never called me names

they’ve never tried to poke my eyes out

or strangle me

or suffocate me

or anything

my knees will SAVE ME

 

right, i’m going to strap them now

 

 

 

 

haha   elbows

try an kill me now bastards

you can;t can you

 

 

i have to go its hard to type

 

 

Dotty Does Some Dreaded F*cking Form Filling

 

I’ve spent today filling in a FORM that should have been filled in weeks ago, a fucking nasty FORM with BIG spaces to write in and little boxes to tick and SHITEY illogical questions to answer.

When it first arrived I opened it, not realising it was a FORM. I read the letter that came with it then I stuffed it all back in the envelope and propped it up on the worktop so I wouldn’t forget about it completely (I couldn’t, it’s important or I’d have binned the thing). And for all these weeks it’s been THERE, waiting for me, whispering ‘fill me in, fill me in,’ watching me when I tried to sneak past it on tiptoe or when I got down on all fours and crawled below it’s line of sight. When I tried to go to sleep at night I could feel the EVIL emanating from it – I AM HERE AND I WON’T GO AWAY UNTIL YOU FILL ME IN – and for the last two days I haven’t been in the kitchen at all and I’m fucking STARVING and the DUE DATE that the form has to be returned by is VERY DUE so this morning I went into my kitchen with a notebook and pen and I grabbed the envelope and opened it and took out the FORM and then I laid the FORM on the table next to the notebook and pen and then I made a MASSIVE pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches for STRENGTH and ENDURANCE and then I made another cup of coffee and then I went for a wee and then I couldn’t avoid the FORM any more so I sat down and got started on the fucker.

After filling in my name and address and shite, one of the first things it asked me was

‘Do you need an interpreter?’

and I was SO TEMPTED to put

YES

and then when it asked in what language, I wanted to put

IN MY OWN LANGUAGE WHICH IS CALLED DOTTISH

and I wanted to write that if they wouldn’t provide me with a Dottish interpreter I’d SUE THEIR BOLLOCKS OFF because that’s just SHEER, BLATANT DISCRIMINATION.

and so what if there’s only one person in the world who speaks Dottish and I’M that person, PAY ME £70.00 per hour and I’ll translate for myself, you fucking imbeciles.

 

I don’t like FORMS. They’re nasty.

I’ve finished it now though and it’s all ready to post.

Thank fuck.

 

 

 

This Post Is Not A Post, It’s A Tangerine

 

I haven’t done a PROPER post today, I can’t be arsed. I’ve been adding to my new AWARDS COLLECTION page

 

 

and I’ve been making a brand new page to show off the different versions of my own Dotty Headbanger award –

CLICK HERE TO SEE THEM

 

 

and I’ve come to the conclusion, after extensive treks round WordPress, that I won’t be able to disable the Like button on my 

PLAIN & UNORNAMENTED TITLE PAGE 

without all my Likes disappearing from every post so I might as well ask you all to GO AND CLICK THE LIKE BUTTON ON THAT PAGE  (if you DO like it, if you don’t, don’t) because it’s my front page and if there has to be any Likes on it there might as well be A FUCKING GREAT BIG SHITLOAD OF THEM.

 

This is a tangerine with one nail in it.

 

 

This is another tangerine. It has five nails in it.

 

 

I hope you like tangerines. They’re juicy.

 

 

Dead Ex-Simon – The Mental Cruelty He Inflicted On Dotty (Part 3a)

his actions “…reached depths of mental cruelty previously unheard of in this court.” — Judge Hackisnackersoff

 

The above quote is a dead-on description of my dead husband, ex-Simon. He could be a HEARTLESS, VICIOUS, SADISTIC, MONSTEROUS MONSTER when he wanted to be, a SICK, TWISTED APPLIER OF MENTAL CRUELTY to me, your little Dotty. Here’s a list of a few of the things he did – I can’t tell you all of them, we’d be here all week and some things were too horrendously cruel for me to speak about yet, too painful for me to even THINK about without bringing on a series of major panic attacks, for example WHAT HE USED TO DO TO MY CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES.

 

THE TELLY

Ex-Simon was a remote control control freak, if it wasn’t where he put it last he went ballistic and paddied around like a two year old until he found it. He wanted complete control of the telly and that might have been okay if he’d watched PROPER PROGRAMMES like soaps and films and crime things and costume dramas, and proper documentaries about gypsies and dead sovereigns and that  dirty diseases programme with the doctors and the people who’ve had a nasty EMBARRASSING thing wrong with them for years but they’ve been too EMBARRASSED to talk to their own doctor or tell anyone about it so they GO ON TELLY AND SHOW THE NASTY THING TO THE NATION – what’s that all about, eh? 

Anyway, a female can put up with WAR PROGRAMMES for only so long before the violence gets to her and she batters the telly screen in with a hammer. When we went to buy a new one, ex-Simon wanted to get one with Sky or Branson added on but I put my foot down and said NO because I’ve never seen the point in having FIFTY MILLION TELLY CHANNELS when you can only watch one at a time, or with a twin thingy Freeview you can record two channels and watch one but that’s still only THREE CHANNELS at a time – and when do people WATCH IT ALL? Do all these subscribers get 10 extra hours in the day that the rest of us don’t get so they can get their money’s worth of telly? Because it costs a fucking bomb to subscribe to them, I know because they keep sending me shitemail to get me to sign up – BUT I WON’T because I’M BOYCOTTING THEM and the reason I’M BOYCOTTING THEM is because they THIEVE AWAY ALL THE GOOD TELLY PROGRAMMES after we’ve had one or two series’ on ITV or Channel 4 and we’ve got to like them and want to watch the next series but BOSH along comes Sky or Branson with their big bags of dosh and we don’t get to see what happened next —

Dexter

Criminal Minds

The Walking Dead

Medium

are just 4 of the programmes they’ve THIEVED. So I’ll NEVER EVER sign up and give them loads of money, what I do is I WAIT UNTIL THE DVD BOXSET IS CHEAP and then I buy it and KEEP IT and Sky and Branson and whoever else can FUCK OFF.

 

 

BREAD

At the same time as ex-Simon decided to become a MINIMAL, he also decided to become a health freak. He wouldn’t let me buy WHITE BREAD. He wouldn’t even let me buy BROWN BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD and not just NORMAL WHOLEMEAL BREAD, I had to buy WHOLEMEAL BREAD WITH ADDED BITS OF SHITE IN IT like sunflower seeds and poppy seeds (not opium poppy seeds) and sawdust chunks and the bits got stuck in my teeth after I’d eaten it and I had to slash-floss like fuck to get them out again because normal flossing just MOVED THE BITS to a different position.

 

 

FEET

Even writing about this is making me cringe and shudder and squirm and feel very, very sick. I HATE  feet, they’re nasty and disgusting and ugly and germy and smelly and diseasey and uuuuuurrrrgggghhhhh, I feel sick

I can’t do this one, I’m gipping too much

he never wore socks in  bed, the evil fucker

AND THERE’S WORSE

no, I can’t do it

I’ll have to go, I need a BIG swig of laudanum to take away the nausea.

Just imagine the absolute worst things to do with feet and that’s what he did.

UUUUURRRGGGGHHHHHHH

Make Your Own Funny Award And I’ll Have It, I’m An Award Slut Now

 

I’ve made a new page for funny awards that people HAVE MADE BY THEMSELVES.

Why not have a go at making one? If I can do it, anyone can.

DOTTY AWARDS

 

Dead Husband Ex-Simon Garottey (Part 2)

 

This blogging lark is quite cathartic, isn’t it? Writing about the shite I can’t talk to anyone else about is having a good effect on me, it’s making me reflect and it’s changing how I feel about certain things. For example, remorse.

Before I say anything else, I’m going to copy and paste a paragraph from the post I wrote on Valentine’s Day to save you the bother of having to click on a link (which you wouldn’t do anyway, so really I’m just making you read the bit I want you to read). This is the paragraph –

 

So today is the 3rd anniversary of THE DAY I KILLED SIMON. You might be wondering why I’m not banged up in the clinky (I know all the prison jargon, I watch LAW & ORDER UK). Well I DID go to prison but only while I was waiting for the trial and my prison wasn’t a general prison it was a sort of prison for the criminally insane. But I AM NOT CRIMINALLY INSANE and that was proved when JUDGE HACKISNACKERSOFF threw the case out on the very first day when she heard how Simon bought me A HOOVER for Valentine’s Day. NO card, NO chocolates, NO flowers – in her speech Judge Hackisnackersoff said his actions “reached depths of mental cruelty previously unheard of in this court.” She also said “The deceased deserved everything he got.” So here I am, and it’s all thanks to Judge Hackisnackersoff that I have my darling little blog at all.

 

So now you’ve read that bit you know I was acquitted of all charges by the lovely Judge Hackisnackersoff. But what I DIDN’T mention in that paragraph is the question she asked me JUST BEFORE she acquitted me – she said

“Are you remorseful?”

And I said ‘Yes, Judge Hackisnackersoff, I AM remorseful.’

And she believed me – because I was TELLING THE TRUTH.

Yes, I WAS remorseful about killing ex-Simon. Here’s a list of why –

 

1 — My nice curtains got ruined with blood stains and I had to throw them away.

2 — My nice cushion covers got ruined with blood stains and I had to throw them away (but luckily my sofa didn’t, it’s a leather oxblood Chesterfield and all it needed was a wash and a wipe).

3 — My good carpet got ruined with blood stains and I haven’t been able to afford to replace it.

4 — Dibble took all my guns away – (I’m okay now, Scotty gave me his old sniper rifle and another little present and I’m building an impressive collection of other protective weapons — oh, that reminds me, WHY HAVE YOU STOPPED DONATING TO MY CANNON FUND?)

5 — Errmm. Hmmm. Nope, I can’t remember the fifth reason.

 

So yes, I WAS full of remorse for what I did, how could I not be, if I didn’t feel remorse I’d be a heartless psychopath, something I’ve always wished to be because heartless psychopaths don’t give two diddly fucks about ANYTHING. But what I’ve now realised is the remorse I was full of was the WRONG REMORSE, I was remorseful for the WRONG REASONS, I was remorseful about the WRONG THINGS. My reasons were selfish, ALL ABOUT ME, not about ex-Simon who should have been taken into account because he was the one who got killed.

So I’ve thought about it a lot and I’ve revised my reasons for being remorseful to include ex-Simon. Here’s a list of THE NEW REASONS WHY I AM REMORSEFUL -

 

1 — Cleaning. NO ONE cleaned the house like ex-Simon did, NO ONE, and it’s starting to get manky again – Scotty and Lottie obviously didn’t do it properly last week, the clatty fuckers.

2 — The way ex-Simon died. If I hadn’t acted on impulse, if I’d just taken a few minutes to stop and think about it, I could have been more INVENTIVE IN MY METHOD of killing him – there are SO many other ways I could have done it that would have been less BASIC and CRUDE than shooting him in the face, cleverer, more thoughtful ways. Yes, I think this is what I’m MOST remorseful about. Poor ex-Simon, even though he deserved to die (as Judge Hackisnackersoff said) I’m now thinking he deserved a BETTER way to die.

Hang on, was that PITY FOR EX-SIMON I just felt?

No, never mind, it’s gone, I don’t know what it was.

Perhaps it WAS pity. That’s a new one, if it was.

 

So there you have it, writing my blog is changing me for the better.

Oh, if you want to know what happened  on the day I killed him you can read the statement I gave to Dibble by clicking on this link –

A Statement From The Accused

 

 

A Boring Post About My Boring Dead Husband, Boring Ex-Simon Garottey (Part 1)

 

Seeing as I’m still having trouble thinking of what to write because nothing happens to me because I CAN’T GO OUT, and seeing as little Emily is still recovering from the Sickness so she hasn’t been able to come and see me, and seeing as Branwell talks a load of shite when he does stay to talk to me, and seeing as Lottie is too busy, busy, busy to talk to me in the first place, and seeing as THE BERSERKERS have been told to stop ringing me up for bedtime stories because Lottie’s been whingeing about the phone bill, and seeing as there’s only SO many times I can stick a poem up and pretend to myself I’ve written a proper post, I thought that today I’ll write about something I’ve been avoiding writing about – my dead husband, ex-Simon.

I’ll apologise in advance for how BORING this post will be – it can’t be anything BUT boring because ex-Simon was boring, he was VERY VERY boring, he was the most boringest bastard ever to have been boring, he could have made every boring bastard in every boring chapter of THE BORING CLUB OF BORING BASTARDS die of boredom.

He didn’t SEEM boring for the first couple of years of knowing him. Yes, he liked CLEANING but any woman with any sense in her head would skip down the aisle to marry a man who liked cleaning, wouldn’t they – I didn’t have to lift a finger, he cleaned ALL THE HOUSE, everything, he kept the place LOVELY and SPARKLY and HYGIENIC which was brilliant for the most part except when he tried to ban me from smoking in the house because he said I was turning the ceiling and walls beige and making all my books yellow and why didn’t I GET RID OF SOME OF MY BOOKS?

You can imagine what I said to that. See, another problem with ex-Simon was he decided, after 2 years of marriage, to become a MINIMALIST – actually, being a MINIMALIST isn’t another problem, it’s the SAME problem as being a BORING BASTARD because who in their right mind wants to live in NOTHING? I’ve never understood MINIMALISM – human beings are ANIMALS not MINIMALS and how do animals live? They live in cosy little nests and burrows and dens and holes and hollows and other snug places, don’t they? Except fish (and other water creatures) who don’t have the bricks or the fingers to build themselves a proper home so they only have vast amounts of open water to live in – BUT THEY DON’T ONLY HAVE VAST AMOUNTS OF OPEN WATER TO LIVE IN, they have the BOTTOM OF THE WATER to live in and that’s what they do, they sleep in a bed of cosy grit and silt and pebbles with little (or BIG) rocks for walls to keep the BIG FISH and other BIG WATER CREATURES away from them because if they went to sleep in their vast amounts of open water they’d soon be EATEN by the BIG FISH and the other BIG WATER CREATURES. And it’s the same for human beings, we need THINGS AROUND US for protection because if you’re a MINIMAL and your house has fuck all in it, WHERE DO YOU HIDE WHEN THE PSYCHO COMES TO GET YOU? 

Wanting to become a MINIMALIST was the first real indication of how much of a boring bastard ex-Simon would become before I finally sent him to sleep with the fishes (SLEEP WITH THE FISHES!! HA HA HA HA – get it?) I did try to compromise with him (I told him he could keep the little downstairs toilet collection-free) because I still loved him then (though, on reflection, him telling me to get rid of my books is what started the slow swing from love to HATE). I couldn’t understand why he wanted me to get rid of my books when he had a COLLECTION OF STAMPS that he was meticulous about. Yes, stamps are the boringest item to collect but the fact that he was a COLLECTOR wasn’t boring even though the thing he collected was. But (again, on reflection) maybe at the beginning I shouldn’t have been blinded by him BEING A COLLECTOR, I should have focused more on the boringness of WHAT he collected. Ah, Hindsight, you fucker, why are you never there when I need you?

 

I’ll tell you a bit more about ex-Simon later, the thought of having to get rid of my books is bringing on a panic attack and I need my beta-blockers and a little swig of  laudanum.

 

 

 

Oops, I Did It Again

 

Don’t get too excited, Britney Spears hasn’t hacked into my blog – it’s still me, your little Dotty, but once again I haven’t written a post because nothing’s happened. This is a side effect of Hermititis and People Phobia, most of the time it’s too boring for words and today is one of those times. I can’t think of anything to write about and if I could it would be just as boring as the twaddle I’m writing now, the hackneyed old cliched pile of shite about not having anything to write about.

This is one of the downsides of just sitting down to write and pressing publish when I’ve finished – I never have any back-up posts, in fact the idea of back-up posts hadn’t entered my head until I saw it mentioned in someone’s blog a few weeks ago, then I noticed that lots of people do it – but how can I do back-up posts when I can’t even think of ONE?

 

AAAAAAARRRGGGGHHH!!

No it didn’t work. I thought an idea might fly out with the scream.

 

the cat sat on the mat – the cat sat on the mat (advice from Dodie Smith)

Nope, nothing.

 

Except — my face towel was a bit rough this morning, I’ll have to use more fabric conditioner next time I do the washing.

 

I should have just wrote another absence note.

 

Oh-oh-oh — I did do something, I had a tidy up of my blog pages and put things into lists and made it neater. I did it this morning when I was trying to think of a post. Did anyone notice? No, I didn’t think so.

 

I should just shut up, shouldn’t I?

 

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