Baby, Baby, Baby, Baby, Baby. And More Baby.

 

It’s me again. I’ve finally got some free time to write a new post. Contrary to what I thought would happen since I’ve been able to come back online, I’ve had no time to sit down and write and very little time to catch up on blog reading. Why? Because of THE BABY. Everything revolves around THE BABY. He’s four months old now – surely that’s old enough for him to look after himself but NO, he still needs feeding and changing and bathing and playing with, and in between the feeds and the changes and the baths and the playtimes his bottles have to be washed and sterilised, his clothes have to be washed and dried and sorted – ( SCRATCH MITTENS! Tiny little fiddly fucking things that are worse than SOCKS for losing their pairs. I HATE WASHING SCRATCH MITTENS but there has to be a constant supply of them or Buster would gouge chunks out of his face – and yes, his nails are regularly trimmed but have you ever tried making a baby’s fingernails completely UNPOINTY? Not going to happen)and a thousand million other baby-related things that have to be done. It never ends. And that’s before I start cleaning up after Mary-Mona (which merits a whole new post of its own that I’ll do another day when I HAVE THE TIME).

Moaning aside, I love baby Buster more than ANYTHING IN THE WORLD. He’s a happy little chappy, smiley and gurgly and good as gold, and so laid back he falls over when I try to get him to stand at the cooker to cook my Cumberland sausages. Actually, he’s not much use round the house AT ALL but I’m in the process of rectifying that with the new inventions I’m inventing, such as THE DOTTY DRAINING BOARD BABY BOUNCER©, a baby-bouncing seat carefully adapted to fit on a draining board, allowing the baby to sit safely whilst peeling potatoes and other vegetables of your choice – and they can do the washing up, though I’m having a bit of a problem working out where the draining rack will go. Also I have in the pipeline THE DOTTY MOTORISED BABY-WALKING VACUUM CLEANER©, THE DOTTY WINDOW CLEANING BABY SWING©, and THE DOTTY UPSIDE DOWN BABY HARNESS© (with roof attachments that enable the baby to clean your floors and baths).

People will buy my inventions because babies have an inbuilt BABY PRODUCT & CLOTHES MAGNET that works by controlling the minds of all the adult females around them so that when the adult females go shopping and spy baby products or baby clothes, we go ‘OOOO, LOOK, BABY STUFF!!!‘ and we buy and we buy and we buy, and we come out of the shop laden up with unnecessary SHITE and no money left to spend on ourselves. (My favourite, favourite baby product is a brand of colic drops called INFACOL. Infacol is my favourite product because it contains SECRET SWEARING in its name – INFACOLINFUCKALL. Now that’s class). Cot, Moses basket, bouncy chair, bath, toys, steriliser, wardrobe, pram, etc etc etc, and all the toiletries and bum-changing stuff that comes with a baby – give me the days when you swaddled it in a blanket, stuffed it in a drawer or a shoe box, gave it a stick and a stone to play with, and cut up a few raggy clouts for its arse. Babies have too many things. Baby Buster has so many clothes he could open his own baby clothes shop (that’s if he was able to raise the capital by discussing a business loan with his bank manager, but seeing as his bank manager doesn’t speak Baby, it’s not possible yet). It’s NOT NECESSARY. Babies grow out of their clothes before they’ve worn them 3 times and they’re happier playing with a teething ring and a pair of singing sock glove-puppets (I do the singing – socks can’t really sing), than with their expensive brightly-coloured jingly-jangly toys. But still we buy ALL THE BABY THINGS WE THINK WE MUST HAVE.

So, yes, my inventions will FLY off the shelves and make me a fortune and then Mary-Mona and I can BUY A NANNY to look after baby Buster, freeing up our time to do other, less boring things like SLEEP because although I’m not as tired as I used to be before baby Buster started to sleep through the night (Mary-Mona had him sleeping through BEFORE HE WAS 2 MONTHS OLD and all the other mothers she’s met are as jealous as fuck), I’m still trying to catch up on my sleep.

Baby sleepless nights are different from normal sleepless nights because at any given second during a baby sleepless night I’d be perfectly capable of falling asleep if it wasn’t for THE BABY. Why do they need to be fed at night? Why do they need so many feeds in the first place? It would make more sense to give them one BIG feed to last 24 hours and then I could just GO TO SLEEP and set my alarm clock for 23 hours later. Also, one BIG feed would be a better indicator of when a baby is hungry – after the BIG feed their belly would inflate and they’d look like a little SPACE HOPPER and then over the hours it would slowly DEFLATE until it was back to empty – and what does empty equal? Hungry, that’s what.

One BIG feed would also solve the problem of having to regularly change baby’s nappy because having to change a baby’s nappy umpteen times a day should be included in the TORTURER’S HANDBOOK as number one on the torture list. Hideous things come out of babies. Horrific, ghastly things. Things poor Dotty (ME!) should never have to see or smell or touch, or get on my hands or in my hair (POO!) or down my cleavage (SICK!) or on my clothes (BOTH!). What vileness can match a baby’s full nappy or a bout of projectile vomiting? NONE. And the noises that come out of them – baby Buster does MAN-BURPS that a big fat BIKER would be proud of, and after he does a MAN-BURP he LAUGHS. And he farts like ten machine guns going off in unison – pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu-pu. And he thinks it’s funny to kick his way through every nappy change, especially the horrible ones. And he likes to sneeze in my face when he’s having his baby porridge for breakfast. And he’s recently discovered he can spit – properly spit, not just his usual dribble – so avoiding an eye full of Calpol when he needs some medicine has become an art in itself in this house. Oh, and he’s started teething, so when he needs to chew on something and the closest something happens to be my FACE he becomes an ATTACK BABY, kicking and punching and repeatedly shouting ‘AAAAHHH‘ while he tries with all his might to gum me.

 

Oops, I’ve just noticed how long this post is. Oh well, it’ll make up for the posts I won’t be able to do until next time I get a free afternoon.

 

P.S. To all the depressy people reading this – if you haven’t got one, borrow a baby who smiles a lot to brighten your day, but only if it’s a beautiful cute baby with a beautiful cute smile that lights up the world and makes your heart dazzle. Ugly babies won’t help you with their ugly twisted little smiles, all you’ll feel is pity and sadness. And before anyone starts moaning about every baby being beautiful – NO THEY ARE NOT. To their mothers they might be, but anyone else with eyes in their heads can see an ugly baby for what it is – A FUCKING UGLY BABY.

 

 

 

 

EGGS

 

To prevent me from writing every single one of my new posts about baby Buster I need to find other things to write about, but before I went on my 8 month long absence I wrote about EVERY subject and now I have very little to write about that I haven’t written about before. One subject I don’t think I wrote about back then was the exploitation of old-age workers in third world countries, so this post is about EGGS.

 

 

SOME DOTTY THOUGHTS ABOUT EGGS

Eggs are little miracles of life and nature. Oval, ovoid, ovum. Eggy-eggy-egg. I wonder if anyone has ever seen Jesus in an egg? I once saw Jesus in my ice cream scoop but he disappeared with the sun when it passed the corner of my house.

Eggs are good for you. Eat an egg for breakfast and you’ll be all proteined up for the morning because eggs are full of white and yellow protein and other white and yellow things your body needs. Eggs taste nice. Fried eggs taste nicest but only if they’re cooked in old bacon-flavoured beef fat with bits of bacon still floating through it. Yum. Poached eggs – I’ve never eaten them. They’re slimey. Boiled eggs have very complicated cooking instructions – I don’t make them. I DO like them if someone else makes them for me though. I like scrambled eggs too. But I don’t like ANY eggs if they’re cooked with little slivers of shell. Fresh eggs, straight from the arse of the hen? NO NO. I like my eggs clean, who wants to eat feathers and hen shite for breakfast? Eggs with tiny globs of blood or tissue in them – YUK! Double yolks – YUM!

I’ve never seen an oddly shaped egg. All eggs are EGG shaped. They come in different colours too, all sorts of colours, so many colours you could make an egg rainbow out of all the different colours and still have enough egg colours left over to make a generous quilt for those cold winter nights.

Did you know that eggs can be eaten MONTHS after their sell-by date if they’ve been kept in the fridge and if you test to see if they’ve gone rotten before you open them? The best way of testing them is to use the FLOATING METHOD – put the eggs in a bowl full of water – if the eggs float, they’re fine to eat, if they sink they’re off. Or is it the other way round? I forget.

Eggs are excellent missiles for all occasions. Raw eggs can be thrown at people or objects (WINDOWS! CARS!) when there’s no urgent need to hurt or damage the target but you have a desperate urge to make a mess and cause a little upset. Throwing a raw egg at someone or something makes a statement. It says, ‘I like you. You deserve an EGG!’

Hard boiled eggs, although they could never replace my favourite missiles (BRICKS!) in my affections, can be quite handy during a siege when you find yourself without other, more traditional weapons (BRICKS!) and you need something hard to throw. Hard boiled eggs are small enough to fit in the hand and they’re hard enough to do a fairly adequate amount of damage if aimed correctly (even if they don’t have corners), but the best thing about using hard boiled eggs as weapons is that Dibble can’t arrest you afterwards if you tell them you’re a people-phobic she-hermit who can’t leave the house so the only way you can contribute to society is by feeding the hungry and the only way you’re able to feed the hungry is by dropping food to them gently from your bedroom window – it isn’t YOUR fault they can’t catch, (saying this DOES work – Mother Teresa never got banged up for assault with a deadly weapon, did she?)

 

 

I hope you found this egg post informative and interesting. Treasure it. It might be the last post I ever write on anything but THE BABY.

 

 

 

 

 

How A Baby Whose Name Isn’t Jesus Came To Live With Dotty

 

So, I’m back on my blog and eager to start annoying y’all again but I won’t be annoying y’all as much as I used to annoy y’all because, unbelievable as it might sound, I’m helping to look after the BABY who lives here, and babies (even good babies like the one who lives here) are demanding little fuckers who take up a LOT OF TIME.

How did I end up with a baby in my house? This is how…

 

 

It was almost midnight on Christmas Eve. I was sitting on my sofa watching Christmas shite on the telly when I heard a tap-tap-tap on the back door. Who could it be? Lottie and THE BERSERKERS? Nope, I know what their knocks sound like. Branwell? Nope, he’d be hiding under a pew at midnight mass necking down the Christmas wine. Little Emily? Kumblant? No, it wasn’t them. I’d never heard a tap-tap-tap like it – it scared me. But then suddenly I wasn’t scared because it dawned on me that the only other person who’d be knocking on my door at almost midnight on Christmas Eve was SANTA CLAUS so I jumped up off the sofa and ran to the back door to let him in and to give him his glass of milk and Cumberland sausage sandwich (which he never usually TOUCHES, the ungrateful twat), and to see how many CHRISTMAS PRESENTS he had for me in his sack, and to see if the jingle bells I’d been hearing all week were REAL jingle bells, but when I flung open the door all I saw was a BIG BELLY and a SAD FACE, neither of which belonged to Santa. I know this because —

1. The BIG BELLY was BIGGER than Santa’s big belly.

2. The SAD FACE didn’t have a big bushy white beard at the bottom of it.

3.  Whoever the BIG BELLY and the SAD FACE belonged to wasn’t dressed in RED (it was a sort of manky beige).

4. Between the BIG BELLY and the SAD FACE sat a HUGE pair of BAZONKAS that definitely didn’t belong to Santa (unless there’s something he isn’t telling us). The presence of the HUGE BAZONKAS suggested to me that the person standing in front of me was a woman.

She said, ‘Are you Dotty? Dotty Headbanger?’

‘I might be.’

‘Oh God, Dotty, I’ve been looking for you all day, I’ve been up and down the streets trying to find your house but no one knows who you are or where you live so I had to knock on every single door to find you and I need a wee and I haven’t had a cup of tea or anything to eat for hours. I know you don’t know me but pleasepleaseplease will you let me go for a wee and give me a bed for the night?’

‘Are you pregnant?’

‘Seven and a half months. And I need a wee. Please. And a bed. I’ll sleep on the floor if you don’t have anything else, I’m just so tired and I need to get warm.’

Why do I attract all the nutters in the area, even at Christmas? I was just about to say, ‘Go away. Do I look like a stable?’ when I heard the first chime of my grandfather clock and I thought, fucking hell it’s Christmas, I can’t turn her away on Christmas Day or Santa will find out and he won’t leave me any presents at all. So I let her in and she’s been here ever since.

 

 

Because she turned up looking for a bed on Christmas Eve you’d think her name would be Mary. Her name isn’t Mary. Well, yes it IS Mary, but she’s only half a Mary. She’s called Mary-Mona, the poor cow. Mary-Mona Onken. And the baby’s name isn’t Jesus and he wasn’t born at Christmas, (he arrived at the beginning of February, which makes him, to date, almost 4 months old). And the baby, whose name isn’t Jesus, is NOT the son of God, he’s the son of my feckless fucker of a brother, Scotty.

The baby’s name is BUSTER. Buster Onken-Headbanger. Hyphenated because when it came to registering his birth I told Mary-Mona I’d throw them out on the streets if she didn’t give him the Headbanger name, even if she does want to kill Scotty (she’ll have to get to him before I do or she’ll have lost her chance, I’m going to FUCKING SLAUGHTER him when I see him). I insisted on Headbanger, she wanted Onken (for fuck’s sake) so we compromised and added the hyphen.

So here they are and here they stay and, surprisingly, I haven’t (yet) drop-kicked the baby into the bin or shoved a foul nappy into Mary-Mona’s mouth to shut her up. I’m patient and caring and kind to them because with the baby’s arrival I’ve discovered something new about myself –

I am a BABY LOVER.

Dotty the BABY LOVER.

Who’d have ever thunk it?

 

 

Hello, Hello, Hellooooooooo…

 

 

This is Planet Dotty calling Planet Blog. Come in, Blog! It’s me, Dotty!!!!

Does anyone remember me? How long have I been gone? A long, long, long, long time. Many moons. Many suns. Many Cumberland sausages.

Where have I been? What have I been doing? You can make your selection from the following options …

 

 

OPTIONS

1. I’ve been without internet. Wireless-less because I couldn’t afford the bill and the phone fuckers cut me off until I paid up.

 

2. My ears got so bad that I REALLY REALLY couldn’t stand the noise of my laptop so I jumped on it and jumped on it until it was properly dead and I didn’t buy a new one until my lovely, lovely Audiologist sorted me out with gadgets and gizmos that are starting to make an IMPROVEMENT.

 

3. I fell into a catatonic comma – , – which was roomier than a full stop – . – but not as spacious as a question mark – ? – .

 

4. My brain collapsed and my head fell off.

 

5. I finished my novel, got myself an agent, got myself a publisher, went on a book launch tour and subsequently made a HUGE wodge of dosh that I invested in Cumberland sausages and now I’m living the high life and never have to worry about money EVER AGAIN and I’ve come back to my blog to BRAG ABOUT IT TO Y’ALL.

 

6.  I married Branwell.

 

7. I was abducted by aliens who identified me as the most intelligent life form on Earth. They were correct.

 

8.  I’ve become SANE (and if you believe that, you’ll believe anything).

 

9. I did a little murder.

 

10.  I was trapped in my tumble dryer (again).

 

11.  The MOST HOLY AND BLESSED CHURCH OF THE MOST HOLY AND BLESSED CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE made me its POPE and now I’m responsible for the spiritual and sausagal guidance of MILLIONS of people.

 

12.  I’ve become an animal lover and opened up my home to abandoned and homeless furry fucks.

 

13.  I’ve been learning to play Eine Kleine Nachtmusik with my forehead.

 

14. I’ve been helping with the BABY who has come to live with me, (don’t worry, he’s not mine – his mum lives here too but more about that later).

 

15. One of the above.

 

16.  Some of the above.

 

17. All of the above.

 

18.  None of the above.

 

 

Answers on a postcard, please.

 

 

 

 

 

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