A Dotty Ode To Love

 

O Sausage of Cumberland,

Thou art beauty in pork,

thy fizzle, sizzle on my grill

when I prick thee

with my fork.

 

O how I love thee,

thy juicy, meaty blob;

thine chewy lumps taste heavenly

when I shove thee

in my gob.

 

If I were handed

the golden sun above,

I would decline, O Sausage of Cumberland,

and ask for thee, 

my one and only love.

 

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?

 

THREE ANSWERS TO MY COMPETITION? THREE?

 

Why have I only had three answers to my competition? Why have 74 people looked at it and only THREE PEOPLE bothered to do an answer? Why? Why? Why? Do you HATE ME that much? Am I so horrible and nasty to you that you don’t want to be my SUPREME PET FOR THE DAY?

 

These are the people who I LOVE MOST now —

DeeDee — whose answer is a Cumberland sausage wrapped in butcher paper

John (& Victor Tookes) — whose answer is Jean Luc Picard’s underwear

pmao — whose answer is himself (he said ‘me’, but if I wrote ‘me’ you’d think I meant ME)

 

IT’S NOT FAIR.

I even did a nice picture for you to look at.

You’ve all made me sad and upset and I’m crying and I’ve had two panic attacks writing this post and YOU HATE ME, EVERYBODY HATES ME and I need a lie down and a little sleep.

Goodnight, cruel, cruel people.

If blogs had shins you’d all kick the fuck out of mine.

YOU ALL HATE ME.

HATE HATE HATE

HATE.

 

Dotty Day Out

 

Hello everybody. Sorry I couldn’t do a post yesterday, I was too knackered to write one. Why was I too knackered? Because I went OUT.

O-U-T spells OUT.

OUT is the opposite of IN.

That’s what I did, I went OUT.

For the second time this year. 

I’m a social butterfly with butterfly stitches. I bought butter. And I saw a fly, a big fucker that must have got IN the car when we were getting OUT of the car but luckily Lottie spotted it before we got back IN the car and she opened the door and the fly flew OUT.

And fuck-diddly-fuck, wouldn’t you just know it, 24 hour Tesco had Cumberland sausages on offer – buy one get one free – so I bought fucking loads and loads and got the same again for nothing.

It all happened IN a similar way to when I went OUT last time (see Dotty And Scotty Go Shopping) except this time Lottie came with us so I wasn’t left alone when Scotty did his recce of the aisles. And we went to 24 hour Tesco later than we did last time, yesterday we set off at 5.00 am which would have been impossible if I hadn’t dosed up on double beta-blockers, double anti-depressives, two vials of laudanum and a swig of Diet Coke to wash it all down. And THE BERSERKERS came too and they proved to be a great distraction for me and a great help when Lottie went off to the toilet – when a person happened to be IN the aisle I wanted to go down what they did is they walked up to the person who was looking at whatever they were looking at on the shelf, stood right up close to them, very still and very straight, and THE BERSERKERS looked up at them and kept looking up at them, and kept looking up at them, and kept looking up at them with their big wide starey little-girl eyes until the person got freaked out and ran away.

I’m loving THE BERSERKERS so much more than I ever thought I would.

So we got all the shopping and sent Scotty off to pay for it while Lottie and me and THE BERSERKERS had a wander round the non-food aisles. And that’s when I saw it – the perfect thing, the absolutely perfect thing that I have always wanted – the bench – THE BENCH that is made of solid dark wood and has little carvings of love hearts on the back, the bench that is BEAUTIFUL and LOVELY and COMFORTABLE with thick slats for your bum to sit nicely on, the bench that was advertised as a garden bench but I didn’t buy it for my garden, I bought it so I could screw my MEMORIAL PLAQUE onto it and put it on the HIGH SPOT ON THE MOORS that I used to love walking to, the spot that has a view to die for, the spot that I want my ashes scattered on when I am DEAD. So I bought it.

My MEMORIAL BENCH was too big to fit IN the car because of all the shopping and US even though the car is a big posh one, so Scotty took us and the shopping home and then he went back to collect my MEMORIAL BENCH. While he was gone Lottie put all the shopping away while I looked for my MEMORIAL PLAQUE which was where I thought it was, IN the top drawer of my desk. This is what my MEMORIAL PLAQUE says —

 

 This bench belongs to

DOTTY HEADBANGER

19?? – 20??

If you write on Dotty’s bench

she will haunt you

for the rest of your pitiful life.

 

When Scotty came back with my MEMORIAL BENCH he asked where I wanted him to put it. 

‘Put it? I’m not putting it anywhere, it’s going up to its SPOT ON THE MOORS. Now. When I’ve eaten my Cumberland sausage sandwich.’

He looked at Lottie and I could see by the way they looked at each other that they didn’t think I could go OUT twice IN the one day so I tried to reassure them – ‘It’s okay, I’ll take more medication’.

They looked at each other again. Lottie said, ‘Have you got something planned, Dotty?’

‘Yes, I’ve got it all planned – Scotty can screw my MEMORIAL PLAQUE onto my MEMORIAL BENCH then me and Scotty can go IN his car with my MEMORIAL BENCH and you and the girls can go IN yours.’

‘What else have you got planned?’

‘Oh. I didn’t think of anything else – should we take a picnic?’

‘I meant…’ she looked at Scotty again, ‘I meant have you got plans to… you know?’

‘What?’

Scotty looked at ME instead of at Lottie. ‘Fucking ‘ell, Dotty, are you going to top yourself?’

‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA — is that what you think? Well no I’m not, not today you divvy sods – I’ve just spent ninety quid on shopping. And a hundred and fifty on my bench.’

‘But memorial benches are for dead people. Their families buy them as a MEMORIAL and put them in a place their dead one loved. You’re not dead.’

I just laughed at them again and went for a wee before we set off. No I’m not dead – and that’s why I’ve been planning for years to buy my own MEMORIAL BENCH – why should a seat appear for me WHEN I CAN’T USE IT BECAUSE I’M DEAD? Why shouldn’t I have somewhere nice to sit when I’ve just slogged my way up a big fucking hill to look at the view? And ALSO – when everything’s back to normal and Scotty and Lottie and THE BERSERKERS have gone home and it’s just me and little Emily again, if I have my MEMORIAL BENCH to visit it might make me GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING HOUSE THAT I CAN’T GET OUT OF.

So we took my MEMORIAL BENCH up to the HIGH SPOT ON THE MOORS and set it in place (Scotty brought my shovel with him and I made him stop off on the way to buy a bag of ready-mixed concrete). The wind wasn’t too bad for March and the ground wasn’t boggy either because it’s been freezing these last few days so me and THE BERSERKERS had a wild old time racing up the hill (they beat me, I ran like a lame old donkey because of my butterfly stitched places). I asked Lottie and Scotty to take THE BERSERKERS for a walk so I could be OUTSIDE on my own for a while. Lottie made sure I had my Nokia Hard Bastard with me to ring her if I needed to and off they went.

I can’t describe how I felt when they’d disappeared out of sight, it was too lovely for words, but the BIG SKY was beautiful, I sat on my bench for ages and ages looking for faces in the clouds. I saw King George III, Muhammed Ali, Van Gogh, Jimmy Krankie, Britney Spears and I think it was Julius Caesar or more likely it was Caligula.

It wasn’t as quiet as I thought it would be, but it was a BETTER sort of noisy, no FUCKING MACHINERY, just birds and breeze and the odd baa from a sheep. It was the closest to silence I’ll ever get until I’m dead and I want to go there again soon. I WILL go there again soon because now I’ve got my MEMORIAL BENCH up there to park my arse on for a rest.

When we got home I went upstairs to rewrite my will — what they have to do is get me a basket coffin (basket case when living, basket case when dead), carry me up to the HIGH SPOT ON THE MOORS, make a big bonfire, chuck me and my basket coffin INTO the fire, eat a few Cumberland sausages and sing a little song but I don’t know what song yet, it’s a toss up between I’ll Fly Away by Alison Krauss & Gillian Welch and Bat Out Of Hell by Meatloaf.

Perhaps I’ll make them sing both.

 

 

Happy Headbanger Family (We’re Like The F***ing Waltons)

 

SNOW – lots of it

WIND – blowing a hooley round my house

= WILD FUCKING BLIZZARD

It hasn’t let up all morning.

 

And I’m snowed in. Not downstairs, that’s okay, but if I need to get out of one of the two upstairs windows that face the BLIZZARD I can’t because they’re CAKED IN SNOW, I can’t see out of them it’s piled so high up the windowsills. I had a panic attack when I realised I’m snowed in so Lottie told Scotty to get the big ladder out of the shed and go and clear it off. He said ‘But she doesn’t go out,’ so I said ‘THAT’S NOT THE FUCKING POINT.’ He’s doing it now. I’m sitting on my bed watching him and he’s swearing like fuck – the wind’s too strong for me to hear but so far I’ve managed to lipread FUCKING ‘ELL — SHIT — FOR FUCK’S SAKE — BASTARDING FREEZING SOMETHING SOMETHING WANKER. And he’s just said BOLLOCKS.

They all stayed here last night, Scotty, Lottie, and THE BERSERKERS. Scotty slept on the couch, Lottie and THE BERSERKERS slept in my bed and I slept in the spare room which was nice, I’ll have to do it again sometime, it was like going on holiday and waking up and not knowing where you are and realising oh, I’m on holiday, except I went oh, I’m in my spare room.

Last night was lovely. I didn’t have to do anything, I vegged on the couch with a plate of Cumberland sausages, a packet of Hobnobs, and continuous refills of nice cold Diet Coke. And THE BERSERKERS who I thought at first would start slapping me on my bandages or something, but they didn’t, were KIND TO ME. We watched a film (Cinderella? I don’t know, I must have dozed off) then when it was time for THE BERSERKERS to go to bed they told Lottie they wanted ME to take them up and tell them a story and, bless their little cotton socks, so Lottie wouldn’t hear, they didn’t tell me it was WINNIE-THE-SHITE they wanted till we were up in the room – they’ve got their heads screwed on the right way, those two. I thought they’d have forgotten WINNIE-THE-SHITE by now, I almost had but they put me right if I got a bit wrong.

When they were asleep I went back downstairs. Lottie and Scotty were in the kitchen, doing the washing up.

‘Did they get off all right?’ Lottie said.

‘Yep. Fine.’

‘What story did you tell them?’

‘One about a bear.’

‘Winnie-the-Shite?’

‘HOW THE FUCK DID YOU KNOW?’

And she LAUGHED!!! Lottie!!!! And she threw some Fairy Liquid bubbles at me and then she threw some at Scotty and we ended up having the best laugh we’ve had together since we were little.

 

I’ll have to go, Scotty’s getting down off the ladder and he looks like a YETI. I’ll get him a towel, one of my new bathsheets from my collection in the airing cupboard. And I’ll make him a cup of tea for when I ask him to go back out and clear the gutters – he might as well do it now seeing as the ladder’s already out.

 

Dotty Nearly Died Last Night But Dibble Saved Her From The Mean Things

 

I’m living in my tumble dryer. Don’t worry, it’s only till Scotty and Lottie have got rid of all the MEAN THINGS in my house. I’ve taken all my beta-blockers so I won’t have a panic attack and disturb all my neat bandages or make my elbows and knees more sore than they already are from April Fool’s Day, and I’ve got my bottle of laudanum with me, and I’ve sneaked in my mini hand-drill in case I really need it, and the hospital gave me TWO jags in the arse last night – some whizzy floaty stuff that’s still working and some superwhoppy painkiller – and that’s how I’m able to tell you all about it.

It’s quite comfortable in here. I’m sitting with my legs crossed and my laptop on my lap (is it still a lap if your legs are crossed or is it a clap or a crap or a clop or a crop) and I can see everything that’s going on in my kitchen through my round window (I always chose the round window in Playschool – HAMBEL! BIG TED! LITTLE TED! JEMIMA! – oh, I’ve got a Jemima, she’s sitting on the sidebar) and I can hear everything that’s going on too and they can hear me but the metal echo hurts my ears a lot when I shout.

Have you ever seen a crack assassin wield a feather duster? Scotty is so PRECISE and EXACT. He’s like MERCENARY MARY POPPINS except he’s bigger and he can’t sing. And he’s scared of children. I thought he’d try and use dusting as an excuse to get rid of more of my collections but – get this! – LOTTIE won’t let him, she said all he’s allowed to do is move something to DUST IT AND DUST WHERE IT LIVES and then PUT IT BACK IN ITS PLACE.

wOw

Do you want to know why they’re here? Shall I tell you what happened?

No, I don’t think I will.

 

 

 

 

beep

‘LOTTIE! THE FUCKING DRYER JUST BEEPED!’

‘It didn’t, I’ve switched it off at the wall.’

‘Oh. Right you are then.’

 

 

 

 

 

I was only kidding – of course I’ll tell you it. Why wouldn’t I? I love you all (y’all).

It was Anette’s fault – she scared me last night when she told me there are MEAN THINGS in my house. After the first four panic attacks, when the laudanum and the beta blockers started to kick in, I did what she said and got all my cutlery out and laid it round me on my bed, then I wrapped myself in tin foil but I didn’t have enough to cover all of me, I managed to cover everywhere except from my left knee down AND THAT’S WHERE THEY GOT IN. I felt them slithering up my leg (I had my short-leg pyjama bottoms on) and then they started biting me but it wasn’t really biting it was more like suck-biting, like vampire leeches and then they were all over me inside the tin foil slithering suck-biting slithering suck-biting and I was screaming and I grabbed some forks and tried to kill them, legs STAB arms STAB belly STAB neck STAB face STAB head STAB STAB STAB STAB STAB everywhere all over me and I couldn’t kill them, they wouldn’t get off me I killed one and twenty more slithered onto me I screamed and screamed and STABBED and STABBED and they kept coming and coming and then BIG ONES came ROARING ROARING ROARING my name and they grabbed my arms and I knew they’d eat me if I didn’t fight back so I STABBED and KICKED and BIT and NUTTED them but MORE BIG ONES grabbed my legs and my head and my middle and pinned me down and I thought that’s it, I’m for it now but I wasn’t, they ripped the tinfoil off my face and they weren’t BIG MEAN THINGS they were DIBBLE and AMBULANCE and they were all swearing and shouting and one was holding his blood-spurty nose and another was bent double holding his balls and that’s all I remember until I woke up in hospital and Scotty and Lottie were there.

I’ve got 78 butterfly stitches. It sounds a lot but they’re spread all over me in twos and threes with one big one on my neck that needed seven butterly stitches. It doesn’t hurt but I think it will later on when the super-whoppy painkiller wears off.

So Scotty and Lottie – Dibble went for them and took them to where I was, in hospital, and they told me that when they arrived I was out for the count so they waited for me to wake up. While they were waiting Lottie went to get some drinks and that’s when a FEMALE HEADSHRINKER came down from upstairs to do her voodoo on me but Scotty used all his charm and wiles and (Scotty told me this bit later, Lottie doesn’t know) he took her in a toilet cubicle and SHAGGED THE SENSE OUT OF HER, love at first sight, beautiful, marry you, my darling, my only one, four kids, I LOVE LOVE LOVE YOU, and when I woke up they brought me home and the first thing I did when we got home is pretend I needed a wee so I could go upstairs for my laudanum and my mini hand-drill and then I ran (hobbled) downstairs and grabbed my laptop and got inside the tumble dryer. The first thing Scotty did when we got home was ring THE BIG CHIEF INSPECTOR and as a result of his phone call they’re not coming to charge me with GRIEVOUS BODILY HARM any more. The first thing Lottie did when we got home is make us a pile of Cumberland sausage sandwiches.

Both of them sat on the kitchen floor, outside the tumble dryer, to eat their Cumberland sausage sandwiches at the same time as I was eating mine. Lottie made me tell her about the MEAN THINGS and after I’d finished telling her she said

‘That’s it, Scotty’s moving back in with you.’

Scotty’s mouth was stuffed with sandwich so he did some big nods.

‘We’ll get you sorted out – NO, Dotty, no arguments. We’ll start by getting rid of the mean things. That woman Anette doesn’t know anything, it isn’t shiny things they’re afraid of – it’s FLASH SPRAY WITH BLEACH.’

So they’ve been cleaning EVERYWHERE AND EVERYTHING in my house and Lottie isn’t letting Scotty slack off at all, she’s bossing him round like a Sergeant Major. And they keep bringing me drinks of Diet Coke and the odd Cumberland sausage when I want one and about half an hour ago little Emily popped her head round the back door and her eyes were as big as saucers when she saw me in the tumble dryer but a second later when she noticed Scotty dusting a shelf her eyes became HUGE, like glittery frisbees, and I thought ‘Dear jesus, no, please don’t let it happen,’ but it was too late, I couldn’t stop it – THE THUNDERBOLT and she hasn’t taken her eyes off him since.

Bits of me are starting to sting.

Come on, Lottie and Scotty – hurry up with cleaning out the MEAN THINGS, I need a wee and I need a sleep.

I’m going to try and have a sleep in here, my eyes keep shutting and I can’t stand that stupid look on little Emily’s face.

God love her and save her.

 

 

Dotty Had A Lovely Day Yesterday But Today Might Be Shitey Because Of My Leg

 

I had a LOVELY day yesterday and no one spoilt it. Little Emily arrived with a big beautiful bunch of wildflowers for me that she gathered on her walk down to my house and she brought us an apple and gooseberry pie – when I first glimpsed the pie my innards flipped in disgust, I thought it was another Wabbit pie, but no, it was an apple and gooseberry pie and very yummy it was too. We ate it after we ate the Cumberland sausages and before we ate the plain Victoria Sponge Sandwich Cake (sorry, Judith, little Emily snaffled the last quarter that I’d saved for you) and everything we ate was scrummy and yummy and we stuffed our faces like the little greedy gannets we are.

After our feast we were too full to do anything so we sat and talked for a while. Then we got bored with talking so we decided to play a game – Scrabble, which is one of little Emily’s favourites of the games I’ve introduced her to (another favourite is Cluedo and another is Crazy Taxis – ‘Ram his arse, Dotty, ram it hard!’). I don’t really like playing Scrabble with little Emily, not because she always wins but because she’s so fucking SLOW to put a word down, her little hand goes back and forth from her letter holder to the board, from the board to her letter holder, and she umms and aahhhs and bites her lip and screws up her eyes and you’d think she was contemplating THE ORIGINS OF EVERYTHING not just whether ‘bat’ will give her more points than ‘cat’. But I was doing my best to be a good friend because I don’t mind telling you I’ve missed her and I don’t want to scare her away like I have with all my other friends. Sometimes I miss them too, but not often, they were all a set of bitches, the lot of them — except Kathryn, she was nice. I didn’t scare Kathryn off, she moved away and by the time I started answering my phone again she’d been gone for over two years and she’d stopped leaving messages on my answerphone. She’d given up on me, the cow.

Anyway, to cut a long happy day short, little Emily and I had a long happy day ending with little Emily deciding to stay the night. She made us a nice cup of hot chocolate to take up to bed and that’s when my leg got scalded, the dozy bint spilt hers down my shin and jesus christ and his nails it hurt like fuck, I let out a scream that should have shattered the windows but it didn’t, they’re all still intact. Little Emily ran for some water and came back with it in my TOOTHBRUSH MUG with my toothbrush still in it, I said ‘what the fuck do you want me to do with THAT, brush my teeth while MY LEG IS BUBBLING UP WITH BLISTERS?’ She ran downstairs and she was gone for AGES and when she came back she had a bowl with EGG WHITES in it, (she took so long because she’d been trying to separate the eggs and couldn’t do it without a bit of yolk going in it) and then she poured the EGG WHITES on the sore bit and said I had to sit still until the EGG WHITES dried, so I did, I sat as still as a fucking meringue.

I didn’t sleep much, as you’ll have probably guessed. And if I couldn’t sleep I was fucked if I was letting her have a good, restful night in the land of Noddy. No, I made her stay up with me and run round after me and feel guilty for CRIPPLING ME and BURNING A BIG HOLE IN MY LEG, THE SAME LEG THAT WILL SOON BE AMPUTATED BECAUSE GANGRENE WILL SET IN UNLESS I’M PROVIDED WITH A CONSTANT SUPPLY OF THE SPECIAL PROTEIN THAT’S FOUND ONLY IN CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES. It’s amazing what a Victorian will believe, you can tell them anything – as long as you say it’s been PROVED BY SCIENCE they’ll lap it up like scabby, starving kittens at their milk. 

So off she went this morning to buy some more eggs from the farm they get their eggs from and I hope she remembers to bring me something nice to eat, I told her I need chocolate (Lindt, lots of it) it’s a proven fact that chocolate is good for the circulation and I need to keep my blood going round or my leg won’t heal and necrosis will set in and eat my leg and it’ll turn black and drop off. And ice-cream (Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food, 4 tubs) to help unthicken the chocolate as it works its way through my veins. And those little cheesecakes you get in packs of four, toffee ones (2 packs) because something in the process of putting cheese in a cheesecake results in essential nutrients being fast-tracked to the skin, ensuring rapid healing and the forming of good, healthy scar tissue.

I’m going to watch the first series of Dexter again with my leg up – it’s the best series of Dexter even though I know his brother did it – and wait for little Emily to come back with my goodies. Then she can make our dinner – Cumberland sausage sandwiches. And I’ll have a little cheesecake or two for my pudding. And then a bit of chocolate. And then a bit of ice cream. And then I’ll probably need a little sleep, but little Emily will be here to watch over me.

I love my little best friend.

 

 

Zippedy Doo Dah, Zippedy Day, My Oh My What A Dottyful Day

 

I’ve been up since stupid o’clock making preparations for when little Emily arrives later this morning. I made a big batch of Cumberland sausages yesterday, I made more this morning, I’ve CLEANED SOME THINGS like the kitchen worktops and the kitchen chairs and the kitchen table and I haven’t cleaned the kitchen floor yet because Numpty the Boilerman cleaned a section of it the other day and that’ll do for now, I’ve dusted my laptop with my funny little laptop duster (mine has eyes and it’s pink and it stands up on its one big foot) and I’ve emptied the kitchen bin but I haven’t put the rubbish out because I don’t want to have a panic attack this morning, I want to be all calm and collected when she arrives.

And today, fingers crossed that anyone still wants to read my little blog, I should reach – dah dah – 10,000 hits on my little blog AND I HAVE MADE A CAKE TO CELEBRATE and it’s a VICTORIA SPONGE SANDWICH CAKE, just a normal one, no added medicinal extras because little Emily likes her cakes plain. And I have a little sticker that lovely WordPress gave me yesterday for 1,000 likey-likes and let me just see if I can make it stay where I put it (I’m rubbish with pictures)

Please stick to the page.

I’m not showing off or anything (I’m not like that), I just NEED YOU TO SEE IT so fingers crossed it does what it’s told and doesn’t shag up my page.

I wonder if I’ll get a badge for my 10,000 hits? And I wonder WHO WILL BE NUMBER 10,000?

Little Emily’s going to be SO EXCITED!

eeeekk, eeeeeekk, eeeeeeeeeeeekkkkk!

 

 

 

Normal Dotty Services Will Soon Be Resumed

 

I haven’t written a post for my blog yet, I didn’t get up till after midday. Not that it’s any of your business, why do you want to know what time I got up? I don’t ask YOU what time YOU get up, do I? It’s just plain nosiness that’s what it is and I’ll ask you to remember whose fucking blog this IS, it’s MY blog, I’m the BOSS OF MY BLOG and I’ll get up whenever I bleeding well WANT to get up, my name’s DOTTY HEADBANGER not fucking ROYAL MAIL or whatever the American or Canadian or Australian or Netherlandian or Colombian or whatever country you are on my list version of ROYAL MAIL is – if you want your post to arrive on time RING THEM UP AND ASK WHY THEY’RE SUCH TARDY BASTARDS.

You’ll get a new post from ME when I’m good and ready so stop nagging me, I’ve been INCAPACITATED you know, didn’t you read THE FUCKING MIGRAINE POEM? What do you think THAT was all about, do you think I wrote it for your ENTERTAINMENT? – no I did NOT write if for your entertainment I wrote it because it’s all I COULD write because nothing else had happened to me while I was lying there IN FUCKING AGONY.

Fucking blog. Can’t a She-Hermit sleep in on a Saturday morning after being INCAPACITATED? nag nag nag nag nag.

 I NEVER sleep in, I’m up between 5.30am and 6.30am every morning, weekends included. AND THE ONE TIME I SLEEP IN BECAUSE I WAS INCAPACITATED THE DAY BEFORE YESTERDAY AND IT’S WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE WHINE give me a post, I want a post, if you don’t give me a post I’ll just nag and nag and nag, do a post, do a post NOW, do one do one do one.

NO I WON’T DO ONE. So fuck off, I’m going to make my Cumberland sausage sandwiches for my breakfast now, I haven’t had anything to eat for two days – no it’s more like THREE days. Do you want to see me STARVE?

I might be back later with a new post, I might not, it depends if I can be ARSED TO DO ONE. I might have other more interesting things to do like EXAMINE MY ELBOWS.

So there. Stick THAT up your blogging WordPress and swivel on it, fucking nagging fucking BELL-END of a fucking blog.

 

Dotty’s SECRET PLAN For Retrieving Her New Towels And Her Washing Up Basins From The Back Garden

 

Right, this SECRET PLAN of mine is going to surprise you. Shock you even. It shocked ME when it slammed itself right to the front of my thoughts, knocking all other possible plans that might have been forming back down into the strange and shady pit of my subconscious. It took me a while to get my head round the fact that THE PLAN was really there, shining and magnificent, the ANSWER to a problem I hadn’t had time to think and worry about. A little MIRACLE had happened.

But it wasn’t just the presence of THE PLAN that astounded me – it was THE PLAN itself, what it entailed, what it implied, what it MEANT, not only in relation to the retrieval of my new towels and my basins but, if I could pull it off successfully, FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE.

I won’t tease you by spouting lines and lines and paragraphs and paragraphs of distracting words to keep you in suspense and keep you reading because you might get bored of having to wade through word after word after word, and line after line after line, and paragraph after paragraph after paragraph. We Who Are Mental can have short attention spans and you might lose the thread and just skip down the page to The End to see what happened, or worse still, you might LEAVE THIS PAGE. But if you were to skip down to The End to see what happened, or if you were to LEAVE THIS PAGE you’d miss me

 

 

eeeeeekkk! eeeeeeeeeeekkkkkk!!!! eeeeeeeeeeeekkk!!!

 

 

GOING OUT OF MY HOUSE ALONE

 

 

Yes, yes, you did, you read it correctly. I went out alone. On my own, on my todd, solo-solo-marco-polo. I DID IT.

She-Hermits, He-Hermits, everyone else – I bet you’re gagging to know HOW – well, I’m going to tell you, you’ll just have to hold on a minute while I turn my Cumberland sausages before they burn on one side.

 

♪♬♪ dooby-dooby-doooooooo

dooby-dooby-doooooooo ♬♬♪

 

You can tell how excited I am, can’t you? I NEVER EVER EVER leave my Cumberland sausages to cook by themselves without keeping a supervisory watch over them to stop them spitting at each other and violently rolling into each other’s sides. It’s just not worth it, an unevenly cooked Cumberland sausage can be just as bad as an undercooked Cumberland sausage, but I’ve turned the gas down now so they should be okay.

Okay, how did I do it? How did I GO OUT OF MY HOUSE ALONE? Actually I don’t really know,  I JUST DID IT. I didn’t think about it, instinct or something must have taken over, I didn’t even put any shoes on, I just grabbed a cold Cumberland sausage from the fridge, stuck it half in – half out of my mouth so I wouldn’t scream – in case I dropped it and also to nibble on for sustenance and energy while I was running – then I unlocked the back door and RAN.

And you should have seen me – I was like USAIN BOLT, like the WIND ON LEGS, faster than the speed of light, I was REALLY fucking fast, if anyone was watching they wouldn’t have SEEN ME I was that fast, I’d have been nothing but a SPEEDY LITTLE BLUR before their eyes, THERE and GONE, what WAS that?

RUN, FORREST, RUN!

Four strides to the corner, four strides back. That’s eight strides, eight record-breaking fast-as-fuck STRIDES I DID OUTDOORS.

Waaaaahhhhhhooooooo!

And in between was the swiftiest little pick-up ever. I didn’t even STOP for the pick-up and I had TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW, WET TOWELS to pick up. TWO. It was like a sprinty dance the way I did the turn and the pick-up at the same time while still managing to keep up the flow and the momentum of the run itself – FUCKING FLUID AND BEAUTIFUL, that’s what it was, like Dancing On Ice except it wasn’t dancing it was running and it wasn’t on ice it was on my concrete path – and those TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW WET TOWELS were really heavy, I thought I was definitely going to drop them or snap my hands off at the wrists and I knew how the skaters must have felt during PROP WEEK on Dancing On Ice, it’s bloody well hard you know, you don’t realise HOW HARD it is when you’re watching them on the telly because they make it look SO EASY, and so did I, I made it look like a piece of piss, I’d have been TOP OF THE LEADER-BOARD if Robin Cousins had been in my garden, judging me, and if Jayne and Chris had been there too they’d have FUCKING LOVED IT, they’d have wanted to COACH ME but I’d have said no because I don’t think I’d like ice-skating, I like to keep my feet firmly on the ground, thank you, but I wouldn’t mind having a go at the FLYING ROUND THE RINK thing, that looks like SUBLIME MAGIC and ROMANCE on a safety harness and a sturdy length of steel wire.

I reached the back door again and as I entered the house I let the TWO BASINS FULL OF NEW WET TOWELS drop onto the kitchen floor and I executed a STRIDEY LEAP over them that would have only scored maybe a low four because I was knackered by that time and all the power had gone out of my legs.

My heart was thumping, not panicky thumping, good thumping and I flopped flat over the kitchen table to get my breath back. I was SO PROUD OF MYSELF, SO VERY FUCKING PROUD that I wanted to ring Lottie and tell her what I’d just done, but I couldn’t get up and by the time I did get up to shut and lock the back door the urge to ring her had gone.

This is the SECOND TIME I’ve been out since I started my little blog back in December of last year. But it’s the FIRST TIME I’ve been out ON MY OWN for THREE YEARS.

In the space of a few days I’ve planned the party that wasn’t a party (planning it counts?) and I’ve GONE OUTSIDE MY HOUSE ON MY OWN.

What’s happening to me?

 

 

I Cooked And Baked And Blew Up Balloons But There Won’t Be A Party, It Was All For Nothing, No One Is Coming

 

It’s my party and I’ll cry if I want to.

Does anyone want a Milk Chocolate Cumberland Sausage bun? I have 24. I made two batches this morning. And I made two batches of Dark Chocolate Cumberland Sausage buns too (80% cocoa solids), in case little Emily and Lottie felt they were too old for Milk Chocolate Cumberland Sausage buns. They’re nice, I put Cadbury’s Chocolate Buttons on top.

I also made a Cumberland Sausage trifle (like a traditional sponge trifle but without the sponge – I used Cumberland sausages instead). And I made a cake that DOESN’T have Cumberland sausages in it, it’s an Opium & Laudanum Sandwich cake that I made for Branwell because when little Emily told him about the party he got excited and said he wanted to come, and that’s what I’m going to eat all by myself, I’m going to scran the whole fucking lot of it, my Opium & Laudanum Sandwich cake with FRESH CREAM AND JAM.

Tonight, Matthew, I’m going to be THOMAS DE QUINCEY.

They all said they wanted to come. I expected Lottie to decline but she surprised me and said yes.

I surprised myself by even considering having a jolly-up, by even allowing the idea inside my head when Judith put it there. What type of She-Hermit has a PARTY?

A RECOVERING type of She-Hermit has a party and that’s what I went to bed thinking, maybe this is the first step on the road to recovery for me, maybe this party is the start of getting my life back again.

I should have known though, shouldn’t I? Fool, fool, fool. Fucking stupid simple gullible fucking fool.

 

You’re too late for a bun. I smashed them up with my brick during my shaping session. You can lick the chocolate buttercream out of my hair if you want to though, before it dries up.

 

I don’t know what to do with all these balloons. They’ll hurt my ears if I pop them. I can’t open the back door to set them free in case little Emily and Branwell are still outside, waiting for a chance to get in. She’s mad at me, foaming. Raging.

 

The phone won’t shut up either. Ring fucking ring fucking ring fucking ring, as soon as it stops it starts again, RING RING RING RING RING RING RING  

 

LEAVE ME ALONE, LOTTIE

LEAVE ME ALONE

LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE LEAVE ME ALONE

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I can’t stop crying

but it’s MY party

and I’ll cry if I want to.

 

 

Dotty Is Friends With The Police Again (But They’re Coming For You, Clown)

 

The police called round to my house again last night.

It’s been a few weeks since I saw them last, on THAT night – see Dotty In The Darkness (with lots and lots of swearing) – and I must say I’ve missed their sweet little 12 year old bum-fluffed faces that always look so SERIOUS. And I’ve decided to forgive them for THIEVING MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL because after many, many, many hours of rageful thinking about WHY they STOLE MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL, it came to me one day that maybe the policeman who STOLE MY LITTLE HAND-DRILL needed it for himself because being a policeman must be a stressful job sometimes – I wouldn’t want to have to spend my days (or nights if I was on night-shift) climbing trees to rescue stupid cats. Who would? Let the fuckers fall and then maybe they won’t SHIT ALL OVER PEOPLE’S GARDENS, maybe they’d be too frightened to go out in case they fell out of a tree and they’d stay in their own house and shit in there instead. (Or is that Firemen who rescue cats? Same difference).

Two policemen came to see me.

1  Sergeant Sherlock

2  PC Plod

They’re not their real names. I can’t remember their real names so I gave them aliases. They were new policemen, I’d never seen either of them before and I know all the local bobbys.

I didn’t hear them at first because they came to the front door and knocked on that but bricking it up must have provided a layer of sound-proofing so I only knew they were here when I heard them battering on the back door. I panicked a bit at the sound of banging on the back door, I thought it was someone wanting to dump THE BERSERKERS on me again, but I answered it and it was the police and my heart gave a little skip (not a panicky palpitation) because I thought they’d decided to give me my STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL back, but when I said ‘Have you brought my STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL back, the STOLEN LITTLE HAND-DRILL that one of you Keystone fuckers THIEVED FROM ME,’ Sergeant Sherlock said no, they hadn’t, they were here about the noise.

Eh? What noise?

‘Singing,’ he said. ‘Very loud singing.’

‘Oh, that.’ Fucking nosey neighbours AGAIN. ‘It was me and Clown, we were singing duets and rounds. We were bored.’

‘Clown? Clown who?’

CLOWN, you clown.’

‘Surname?’

They’d tried to trick me with that one before, asking for my surname and when I told them it they said no, we mean the other person’s surname. But I was one step ahead of them.

‘Fire’

‘Where?’

‘No, that’s Clown’s surname, you knobhead. His middle name is On, but he doesn’t spell it with a capital O and I’m not sure if that’s because it’s spelt that way on his Birth Certificate or if he’s just minimised the size of the letter to try and look cool.’

‘Is Mr Fire still here?’

‘No, don’t be stupid. How can he be here? He’s at home.’

‘When did he leave?’

They were asking such daft questions I couldn’t help laughing. ‘HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA HA. He was never here.’

PC Plod piped up, ‘Stop being unhelpful, Miss Headbanger. Mr Fire and yourself were disrupting the peace. We need to speak with him.’

‘It isn’t MISS Headbanger, it’s MADAME Headbanger. I have been married you know.’

PC Plod again, ‘So where is your husband? Is he here?’

‘No. I killed him.’

They didn’t say anything for a long time, they just looked at me. The silence was getting creepy so I said, ‘Don’t worry, he isn’t under the floorboards or anything. It was a long time ago and I was found not guilty.’ Bless their little rubber bullets, they each breathed out a long breath at exactly the same time, like psychic synchronised twins.

‘Where is Mr Fire?’

‘Do you feel each other’s pain?’

‘What?’

‘You know, like when one twin gets battered round the head, the other twin feels EVERY BLOW.’

‘Are you threatening us?’

‘No I’m NOT threatening you. I was just ASKING for fuck’s sake. Hoy, hang on, why are you looking at me like that? It’s police intimidation. I’ll report you.’

The Sergeant coughed. Well, it was more of a throat-clearing harumph. Actually no, it was a timely little bark. ‘Will you tell us where Mr Fire lives, Madame Headbanger?’

‘Yes, he lives in Canada.’

‘So he wasn’t part of the singing that disrupted the peace?’

‘Yes he was.’

‘I think you need to come down to the station with us.’

Oh fuck. I HATE going to the station because of my HERMITITIS AND PEOPLE PHOBIA.

‘Don’t you know I have Hermititis and People Phobia?’

‘What?’

‘Never mind. Do you want a Cumberland sausage?’

Sergeant Sherlock’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, you’re THAT Dotty Headbanger. The one with the Cumberland sausages. The lads down the station say you make the best ever Cumberland sausage sandwiches.’

‘Yep, that’s me, guv.’

And an hour later they left with their bobby-bellies full of Cumberland sausage sandwiches to go next door to arrest the noisy neighbours who won’t stop banging on my wall.

 

 

 

 

CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES TO THE RESCUE YET AGAIN? IS THERE ANY  FEAT OF SUPER-HERO-NESS THEY’RE NOT CAPABLE OF? NO, NOTHING CAN STOP THEM.

Dotty Sundays Are Very Very Boring

 

I’ve eaten a lot of Cumberland sausages today because I’ve been bored out of my skull and my eye still hurts. I don’t know WHY Sundays are so boring, they’re just the same as every other day for me, here in my house, because I CAN’T GO OUT, but there’s a boring Sunday feeling to Sundays that I don’t get on the other days.

tO RELIEVE SOME OF THIS shitey boredom, i’M WRITING THIS SENTENCE WITH THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON SWITCHED ON, but i’M ALSO USING THE SHIFT BUTTON IN TWO WAYS, FIRSTLY i’M USING IT JUST AS i WOULD IF THE CAPS LOCK BUTTON WASN’T SWITCHED ON, AND SECONDLY i’M USING IT AS A shouty tool EXCEPT IT DOESN’T look to be working because this part looks more like a whisper than a shout. wHAT DO YOU THINK?

i’M GOING TO MAKE SOME MORE cUMBERLAND SAUSAGES. i MIGHT AS WELL STUFF MYSELF UNTIL i can’t fucking move.

I AM SOOOOO FUUUUUCKING BORED. BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED BORED

 

Where’s my brick?

 

 

 

Hermit Tip – How To Get An Eyelash Out Of Your Eye When There’s No One Around To Get It Out For You

 

It’s a bastard when you get an eyelash in your eye and you can’t get it out and no one else is there to get it out for you. I had one this morning, I felt it stab my eyeball at 8.22 am and I’ve only just managed to get it out. And now my eye’s all red and gungy and it’s almost swollen closed – I can only see half of this box I’m writing in, I keep having to move my head along to follow the words so I don’t make any mistakes.

Here’s a sequential list of the tactics I used in my attempts to get the eyelash out.

MY FINGERS — I started with the index finger on my right hand (because I’m right-handed) but that finger hasn’t got much of a nail to catch the eyelash with and if you don’t catch it when you first feel it you’re fucked because what happens is you start PRODDING AROUND YOUR EYE with your finger which irritates the eyeball so then your eye starts watering and the eyelash becomes MOBILE, like a little beached log on a rising river, and when the water reaches the eyelash – away it floats and the chase is on.

2  I lost the eyelash for a while and I thought yes, it must have come out with the water, but no it didn’t because when I was drinking my coffee I felt it stab again, this time under my top eyelid – the most annoying place it could have migrated to. So the next thing I tried was EYEBALL ROTATIONS with closed eyes, which can, if you’re lucky, dislodge the eyelash (you should alternate between rapidly rotating your eyeball and doing it very slowly for the best chance of success with this tactic). But this time the EYEBALL ROTATIONS didn’t work, the eyelash remained stuck up there, somewhere near the outside corner.

3  PULLING THE TOP EYELID DOWN OVER THE BOTTOM ONE AND CONTINUING WITH THE EYEBALL ROTATIONS WHILST HOLDING THE TOP EYELID IN PLACE was the obvious thing for me to do next, but I didn’t do that because the eyelash had moved down a bit towards the pupil and I thought if I looked in a mirror I’d be able to see it and hook it out with a FINGERNAIL. The only problem was I don’t have any mirrors in the house so I had to go round the house looking for a reflective thing. I didn’t find one for two reasons – 1 – dust – and 2 – I kept having to blink so if there is a reflective thing in my house I blinked and I missed it.

PULLING THE TOP EYELID DOWN OVER THE BOTTOM ONE AND CONTINUING WITH THE EYEBALL ROTATIONS whilst holding the top eyelid in place. I tried it. It didn’t work.

FOLDING THE TOP EYELID BACK OVER ON ITSELF so you look like you’re half zombie. This is an awkward but often beneficial tactic if you have a mirror or a reflective surface to look in because sometimes you can catch a glimpse of the eyelash sitting on the eyeball or on the lid itself. But, as I said, I don’t have those things so I had to do it blind and just hope the manouevre itself was enough to dislodge the fucker. It didn’t.

RUBBING AND POKING – I’d been trying to avoid RUBBING AND POKING because this tactic can become very aggressive but there comes a point when you just have to because by then you’d do ANYTHING to get the fucking twatting bastarding thing OUT OF YOUR EYE.

 

THE RESOLUTION

A COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE – Why didn’t I think of this in the first place? Idiot. CUMBERLAND SAUSAGES solve EVERYTHING. What I did was I got a COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE from the fridge, cut an end off and popped it in my mouth to eat, and then I held the remaining big bit of COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE in my hand for an hour in order to heat the flat end of  the COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE to body temperature. Try to avoid RUBBING AND POKING while you’re waiting (I couldn’t avoid it). Once the COLD CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE was warm enough I manipulated the flat warm end into my eye, very carefully, and when it was in and the eyelids were holding it firmly in place, I left it there and I made another cup of coffee and just went about my normal daily life. After a couple of hours I removed the BODY TEMPERATURE CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE and examined it under my magnifying glass – AND THE EYELASH WAS ON THE END OF MY BODY-TEMPERATURE CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE.

BOSH! I WON – I GOT THE LITTLE FUCKER!  – and my eye should heal up in three or four days.

 

 

P.S. And before you ask, yes I DID give the WONDERFUL VICTORIOUS CUMBERLAND SAUSAGE a good wash before I ate it. What do you think I am, a TRAMPY GANNET?

P.P.S.  It tasted FUCKING LOVELY.

 

 

 

DIY For She-Hermits

THIS PAGE IS EXCLUDED FROM THE SEX DISCRIMINATION ACT 1975 and 1986 (amended), BECAUSE I SAID IT IS.

 

For All She-Hermits

DIY is shite, we all know that. It involves planning things and DOING things that we don’t want to do. It’s not just normal shite, it’s A LOAD OF SHITE, but sometimes it’s a necessary evil, sometimes it’s unavoidable and we just have to pull our fingers out and get on with it. So I’m going to tell you everything you need to know about DIY so you don’t have to worry about it ever again.

Men treat DIY as if it’s brain surgery. Just as a brain surgeon wears his scrubs to operate, DIY men get dressed up in boiler suits or overalls (or whatever they call those all-in-one things), thinking they look work-like and sexy, but really those boiler suits are just BIG BABY ROMPER SUITS that look like BIG BABY ROMPER SUITS and serve no purpose at all. Wear your jeans, you silly man, you’re not a baby. It’s not a good look.

DIY men have all sorts of tools and power tools and gadgets, but they don’t just have ONE of everything, they have a ROOM full of the stuff, usually a cellar or a shed that they won’t let you into, packed full of it all, millions of screwdrivers and hammers and awls and drills and drill bits and pliers and spirit levels and screws for wood, screws for metal, screws for bricks (INFIDELS) and chisels and saws and grinders and welders and sanders and planes and loads and loads and loads of other bits of metal shite that are all POINTLESS and STUPID. And they make boards to DISPLAY THEIR TOOLS ON THE WALLS. What’s that all about, eh? Rembrandt the Spanner? And they won’t use THE WRONG TOOL to get a job done quickly, they have to use the exact one, the two and one eighth red posi-drive screwdriver that clicks when you turn it and JUST FITS inside the screw, and when they’ve done the job that screwdriver has to be put back in JUST THE RIGHT PLACE or they moan and moan and moan like the big whiney-arses they are. WELL BOLLOCKS TO ALL OF THAT. Every single DIY job can be done without keeping B&Q and Toolfix in business. To do a DIY job to perfection a She-Hermit doesn’t need all that fuckwit-stuff, you only need a few tools and a few all-purpose things that I’m going to list now.

 

1 massive straight-headed screwdriver

1 stiletto shoe (strong heel, metal tip)

1 palette knife

1 carving knife

1 fish slice

1 nail file

1 pair of eyebrow tweezers

1 big, big bag of nails

miscellaneous household & garden things

 

And that’s it. Not even a drawerful, but you don’t need anything else and I’m going to demonstrate this by telling you about a little DIY project that I completed last year.

 

HOW TO MAKE AN AIR-RAID SHELTER IN YOUR CELLAR WHEN YOU HAVEN’T GOT A CELLAR

Begin by taking your floor up in the kitchen. Lift your lino then take the floorboards up by prising at them with your massive straight-headed screwdriver. Be careful you don’t rip your lino or snap your floorboards, you’ll need to put them back down again when you’ve finished.

Get your garden spade and start digging out your Air-Raid Shelter. Use your pots and pans for the soil and when they’re full empty them out of your kitchen window. As you empty more and more pots and pans a soil-wall will grow in front of your kitchen window providing you with a natural block against nosey neighbours peering in. Dig down deep, the deeper the better, and you’ll tap into the natural geothermal heat that the centre of the earth provides for free, saving money on future heating bills when you spend time in your Air-Raid Shelter.

When you’ve dug out your big hole you need to line it with something. Get a lot of wood (send your Shopping Person out in the middle of the night to nick a big fence) and get your stiletto and your big bag of nails. Nail all the wood together to form walls and a floor. You’ll need to water-proof the wood or it’ll rot at some point – A DIY man would tell you that you need to tank your Air-Raid Shelter with something non-permeable and spend loads of money doing so, but in the same way as you line a pond by sealing it with puddled clay, you can water-proof your Air-Raid Shelter with a mixture of solidified Cumberland sausage fat and the dust from around your house (leave the dust for as long as it takes for 3 inch piles to form and when you need it for water-proofing your Air-Raid Shelter you can just peel it off in lumps). Spread the mixture all over the wooden walls and floor to seal it permanently.

Now comes the fun bit – choosing the wallpaper. White is good because it brightens the place up but it can be a bit sterile so I went for a lovely background shade of Apple White, (which is white but with a little hint of apple green), and in the foreground is a repeating picture of a little blue bird on a branch, just right for when you have to spend a lot of time down there and you can’t see any nature. Use your carving knife for slicing the strips of wallpaper to the right size. Stick it straight onto the walls and it’ll stick to the Cumberland sausage fat and dust mixture, no wallpaper paste required. Use your fish slice for smoothing it into place and getting the bubbles out. (You can paint the walls if you’d rather – your massive screwdriver will easily open the paint tin, doubles up as a stirring stick and you can jam it into the head of a paintbrush if you’ve lost the original handle). Ba-da-boom, one beautifully decorated Air-Raid Shelter ready to furnish as you please but remember to put in a food shelf (use nails and stiletto), and a bed (bring one down from upstairs).

When you put the floorboards back be sure to make a door in them (with your carving knife to cut out the shape, nails, stiletto). Don’t forget to cut a bit out of your lino for access.

 

When I can be bothered I’m going to tell you about how I made the wasted space in the insides of my walls into extra storage space for my collections by taking out the cavity wall insulation. You need some little children for this, to squeeze into the narrow spaces – I used THE BERSERKERS but any will do. Also you might need to borrow two tools from a man – an angle grinder and some bolt-cutters. These are to cut through the metal butterfly ties that join the inner and outer walls together. Remember though, big electric power tools are dangerous so give the angle grinder to the eldest child and the bolt-cutters to the youngest – Prissy is the eldest BERSERKER (she’s 7) so she had the angle grinder, Cissy’s only 5 so she had the bolt-cutters. If you’re American and live in a wooden house you won’t have to borrow these tools, in fact you won’t have to use the insides of your walls at all, you can just get your Shopping Person to nick a load of fences and make some more outside walls for your house, leaving as much of a gap as you want.

 

So you see, She-Hermits, DIY isn’t brain surgery, it isn’t complicated and you don’t need all the tools and shit that men pretend you need. It’s a PIECE OF PISS and anyone can do it.

Happy DIYing!!

 

Dotty DOES Her Housework

 

I couldn’t sleep last night after I posted Dotty On Housework. At 3.12 am a series of panic attacks began at the thought of how unkind of me it was not to give you some helpful tips and instructions to guide you through the apathy that overcomes you when you look at the disgusting mess that’s mounted up in your house. When the police left, I DID have a little sleep, but not for long. Don’t worry, I’m all right, a little hazy from the beta-blocker sandwich I had to have, but that’s okay. Don’t feel guilty or anything – it isn’t your fault, you can’t help it if you’re needy and clingy and have no idea of what it takes me to write these things down. Anyway, I forgive you because I’m nice like that.

So let’s move on to the cause of last night’s crisis –

Housework.

Just because we don’t like housework doesn’t mean we don’t have to do some now and again but before we begin cleaning there are a few things you need to buy. Make note of these things and get your Shopping Person to get them for you (don’t let them go to Asda though, they get enough of my money already without me referring people to them. And we all know what they are, don’t we?)

What you need on your list if you don’t already have them —— A big bottle of Bleach. Flash Spray with Bleach. Flash Antibacterial All Purpose Spray. Another big bottle of Bleach. Dettol Antibacterial Loo Wipes. A bottle of Windolene. Mr Muscle Oven Cleaner. A can of Mr Sheen Polish. A bottle of 2-in-1 Pantene Shampoo & Conditioner, For Extra Volume. L’Oreal Moisturiser For Sensitive Skin. Cumberland sausages (any will do, get the cheapest, you won’t be eating them). A pack of Toothbrushes. A tub of Chewable Vitamin C to keep you going. A big box of Chocolates for when you’ve finished. Two big tubs of Häagen Dazs or (and) Ben & Jerry’s for when you’ve finished. A big bar of Galaxy for when you’ve finished. A Big Cumberland sausage Pizza with extra Cumberland sausage for when you’ve finished. A big Cheesey Garlic Bread for when you’ve finished. Six bottles of Pinot Grigio for when you’ve finished. Series 3 Boxset of True Blood for when you’ve finished.

I think that’s it.

When the shopping arrives, put the loo wipes and a big bottle of bleach in your bathroom. Put the new toothbrushes in the place you keep them and take the one you use now downstairs. Put all the cleaning products in the cupboard under your sink. You won’t be needing them but if someone comes to your house you can casually swing open the cupboard door and leave it wide open so the visitors can see what’s inside.

Now, believe me I know what it’s like trying to do housework, you begin by thinking ‘what REALLY needs a good clean? Everything? Where do I start?’ and then, because it’s all too much for you, you give up and have a little sleep and when you wake up you’ve forgotten about housework again. But the secret to seeing past the overwhelmingness of housework is to PRIORITISE. Obviously I don’t know what your house is like because I’ve never been invited, so all I can do is tell you what I do. You can copy me if you want.

 

Cleaning My Mounted Boar’s Head & My Other Stuffed Friends

Since they banned Arsenic from being used in the tanning process, (I still have my own supply but I’m saving it for when I really need it) I’ve had to find a way to give my stuffed friends a spruce up. I’ll take you step by step through how I clean Jolyon, my mounted boar’s head.

Before you carefully take Jolyon down from the wall, run a warm bath (no bubbles). Put Jolyon in the bath. Get your Pantene 2-in-1 Shampoo & Conditioner For Extra Volume. Squirt a good amount into your hand and give Jolyon a good wash with it. Scrub him a bit with your old toothbrush. Rinse off the soapiness until it’s all gone. Wrap Jolyon in a bath towel and take him downstairs. Get your hairdryer out. Dry him. Rub in the L’Oreal Moisturiser For Sensitive Skin. Hang him back up. Job done.

Do the same with all your stuffed friends. If you like, before you hang them up or put them back in their places, you can have a tea party with them, that’s what I do, but be careful of your seating arrangements – I once sat Bumbi, my stuffed baby deer, next to Peter, my stuffed mountain lion. Poor, poor, Bumbi, he’s never recovered.

 

Cleaning A Big Blood Stain Off My Astroturf Carpet

It won’t come off. I’ve tried everything except Cumberland sausage fat which works on other stains I use it for. Usually I heat the Cumberland sausage, drip the fat onto the stain, go away and eat the Cumberland sausage and the other Cumberland sausages I cooked at the same time, and when I come back the Cumberland sausage fat has set. I pick off the solidified Cumberland sausage fat AND THE STAIN COMES WITH IT. I don’t know the scientific term for this but I bet it’s a clever one.

But there’s a big problem with using Cumberland sausage fat on blood stains. I’m too frightened that whatever scientific process binds the Cumberland sausage fat to a stain will go wrong when it’s a blood stain, and something else will happen, like the Cumberland sausage fat will meld to the blood stain and the sun will shine on it and make it come alive and when it grows up it will be a CUMBERLAND MAN-PIG, and I’ll be stuck with it forever when it’s not long since I came out of prison for getting rid of Simon, who was also a man-pig but only metaphorically. (see A Statement From The Accused).

So the blood stain stays.

 

Cleaning My Panic Room

Don’t bother. Jodie Foster doesn’t clean hers. I couldn’t see any cleaning products in there, not even a sweeping brush, the lazy tramp. The least she could do is put some things out for show. But if Jodie Foster thinks it’s okay to have a mucky Panic Room, then so do I.

 

 

That’s enough cleaning for now, especially after last night. I’m knackered. I need a sleep.

 

 

 

I’ve come back to edit this because I couldn’t sleep – I remembered something important that will save you from having to do ANY housework at all. Make friends with a Mormon (see Friendly Mormons, Where Are You?). You don’t really have to be friends with them, just pretend and your house will be gleaming. I realise this poses a conundrum for hermits, how do I make friends with a Mormon when I can’t go out? Well you could ring them up or if you don’t do phones you could send them an email. And I know you’ll have a problem letting them in, but wouldn’t it be worth it to get your house cleaned? Think about it, they’re good, they’re really good. Thorough. Meticulous.  They love doing it. And they’ll sing you a song if you ask them to.

 

 

Can you see what I’m doing here when I refer you to my older posts? Clever, aren’t I?

 

 

Cumberland Sausages I Love You

 

I make no apologies for the length of this post. It’s about Cumberland sausages and Cumberland sausages are my favourite, favourite food. Nothing can take away from the sheer joy of eating a Cumberland sausage, even the psychotic killers Asda can’t spoil them for me, (see Dotty Will Soon Be Done For). I limit myself to a packet a day, just a small pack of eight. I could eat and eat and eat them. They are beautiful.

What makes a Cumberland sausage different from other sausages? I’ll tell you – apart from their superior taste they have the versatility of no other sausage. They’re so well-made that they’re not only a Cumberland sausage, they can be anything you want them to be – not like Lincolnshire sausages that contain unidentified green bits. When I tried to make a Lincolnshire sausage curtain pole the links weren’t strong enough to hold up my cream Jaquard curtains, (I used Lincolnshire instead of Cumberland because I thought the green bits would set off the cream. Never again). Also, Lincolnshire sausages taste like green, in fact they were probably named after the colour Lincoln green because they do taste like Lincoln green which reminds me of my dear dead Daddy’s Land Rover that he cried over when some random teenage delinquent stranger borrowed it one day to go for a little drive to Beachy Head, but the driver’s door would never catch properly and stay shut unless you knew the trick to it, and she fell out half a minute too early onto the cliff top. Maybe that’s what the green bits are in Lincolnshire sausages, bits of old car. Hmm, yes, I believe so.

The unlimited versatility of Cumberland sausages really is unlimited. I’ve been eating them for years but six months ago, when I learned they can be cooked, a whole new world was opened up to me. Besides discovering my frying pan and my grill and my George Foreman (except I don’t use that now, it looks like a big toothless mouth when it’s open), I realised that when cooked the Cumberland sausage is better than any food of the gods. If Cumberland sausages had been invented when the gods had only boring old nectar to sup I’d bet my right ear on which would have been the more famous of them today because think about it, can nectar replace a broken door handle like a Cumberland sausage can? No it can’t. Can you make a pretty nectar over-blanket? No you can’t. If you’re roasting a chicken and, during the testing-to-see-if-it’s-cooked bit you accidentally break it, can you weld the leg or the wing or whatever back on again with nectar? No you can’t, but you can with a piping hot, carefully pricked, carefully aimed Cumberland Sausage Welder.

Many items that we take for granted in our daily lives could easily be chucked out and replaced with Cumberland Sausages. For example —-

 (NB – I shouldn’t have to explain what to do here, but for normal readers who lack the imagination and creativity of we who are mental, I will).

Humane mouse-traps – Throw them out. Bung Cumberland sausages into the mouseholes. Yes the mice will eat them, that’s the point. Keep bunging Cumberland sausages into the holes the second you see they are empty and soon the mice will be too fat to move and you can just pick them up with a shovel and throw them outside. This will be a great personal sacrifice of part of your own daily portion of Cumberland sausages but it’s worth it in the end.

Nails – Throw all your nails away because PVC doors are no good for nailing notes onto if you’re the social butterfly type and go out to the shop once a week and it happens to be the day when the gasman is due and you need to tell him never to come back. Heat a Cumberland sausage until piping hot, make a thin slit about 5mm from the end to slot the top of your note into. As the fat cools and congeals it will fix your note to the Cumberland sausage. Secure the other end of the Cumberland sausage into your letterbox with the note on the outside of the door. Result, the gasman won’t be back and you have a cold Cumberland sausage for when you get back.

Spoons – Throw all your spoons away. Learn to sculpt your Cumberland sausages. Keep your metal ladle for when you make Cumberland sausage stew and dumplings because no matter how well you sculpt your Cumberland sausage spoons, they’ll never be big enough for a good helping of stew.

Ice grips for the bottom of your shoes – Don’t buy them. Measure how many Cumberland sausages you need for ONLY ONE SHOE. Cut the Cumberland sausages in half lengthways and now you have the required amount for two shoes. Staple them onto the soles. You can also use Cumberland sausages instead of buying Party Feet gel pads.

Ergonomic laptops or keyboards or mousepads, in fact all ergonomic items can be thrown away and replaced with your own custom-fitted Cumberland sausages items.

Other uses —-

Finger puppets – Cut the ends off your Cumberland sausage. Carefully scoop out a little of the sausage meat but not too much or you’ll only have skin. Wiggle your finger inside until the sausage fits. Repeat with each finger you want a puppet for. Decide which Cumberland sausage will be mother (usually the one that fits the index finger – daddy is in the middle). Make her face by pressing on bits of burnt Cumberland sausage that you saved from the frying pan and repeat for all the family. Make her boobs by sticking on two of the ends that you chopped off earlier. Ends can also be used as a hat for daddy, knee-pads for skater-boy son, hairstyle for daughter, or a family pet such as a dachshund. (See Warning/Hobbies For Hermits)

Emergency toothbrush – When you drop your toothbrush down the loo and you’ve none left in your stockpile, use a Cumberland sausage.

Ditto above when you’ve used your last drop of moisturiser.

Use Cumberland sausages to plug taps that drip and drip and drip and drip and drip and drip until you don’t know whether it’s the tap dripping or the ghost of the dead pirate drowned at sea coming to get you.

Use Cumberland sausages as emergency fake moustaches /teeth/witches fingers when people say they are coming to visit you and you need them not to.

Use Cumberland sausages as cake decorations, for those posh cakes decorated round the sides with upright Cadbury’s Fingers. Cumberland sausages are a pretty alternative.

 

 

Oh, I could write and write about Cumberland sausages. But I’ll stop now and let you discover wonderful things about them for yourself. I’ll just say one more thing – you are in for such a treat.

Bon appetite, bloggy people!

 

 

 

Dotty Will Soon Be Done For

 

I am trying to remain calm. I am trying not to panic so that when I phone the police I can explain exactly what is happening in a way that will make them take me seriously without them threatening to charge me with wasting police time again. But in case something happens to me before I can make my statement, or if the police refuse to come to my house again and then something happens to me, I am writing it all down and publically pinning it up on this blog and then the police will be sorry, won’t they?

Asda is trying to kill me. Or to be exact Walmart is trying to kill me, that big American shop that bought Asda. They’re trying to kill me with their Cumberland Sausages that contain more heart attack fat than Tesco Cumberland Sausages but milk is cheaper at Asda so I have to do all my online shopping there or I’ll have to pay another fiver for delivery. If you add up all the extra heart attack fat I’m consuming every day when I eat my packet of Cumberland Sausages, Asda will have killed me by the time I am 79 years old. 79! If I could get Tesco Cumberland Sausages without having to pay their milk prices I’d have another 3 months of life to live in my house. (I wonder if the police would pick up and deliver some Tesco Cumberland Sausages for me? I’ll mention it – you don’t get if you don’t ask.) Asda shouldn’t try to kill people, it’s not fair to take a hermit’s money every week and then take their life. Oh. Oh. I wonder if they need my life FOR their Cumberland Sausages. That would explain it. Yes.

I’m ringing the police in a minute after I’ve finished my sandwich. Think of me here, dying with every bite. Asda, you should be force fed your own Cumberland Sausages, you sly, evil murdering supermarket. Shame on you.

 

 

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