What’s the word for someone who deliberately tries to screw up the universe? I always read my horoscopes. Don’t know what to make of them, personally. Sometimes they come true, sometimes they don’t. There’s definitely something odd about them, but perhaps reading about how our day will go makes us subconsciously do those things. Not me, though. Nope. I deliberately do the opposite of what they say. Purely to see if I can screw up the universe. Hmm. Nothing yet, but I’m optimistic.
If you believe in all this fate malarkey, you’d rightly be expecting me to get a huge wallop from the skies for trying harder than William Bell did to screw up the universe (nerd alert). Although my injury woes of recent weeks have, for the time being, alleviated in their severity, I have not gotten through this week completely unscathed.
Sunday. Woken at 8.15. Had church to be dragged to. Monday. Woken at 8.30. Ring, ring. Tuesday. Woken at 8.00. Doorbell. Ignored it. I didn’t care if it was the postman or the police, the actual police or the band, I still wasn’t going to answer the door. Not even with a baseball bat to rid the world of awful music and terrible hair. Wednesday. 8.30. I heard a bang. Still don’t know what that was. Thursday. Up at 8.30. Baby-sitting for the day. Friday. Up at 7.30. Places to be. Being a professional bum, this week of early waking has severely messed up my sleep cycle.
But, without a shadow of a doubt, the award for the crème de la crap of the week went to my hair straighteners blowing up. I hate it when that happens. You’re always in the middle of straightening your many hairs when kaput occurs. I miss them already. My mother’s suggestion for replacing them wasn’t great. You see, when she was little, her parents held her down and used an iron to straighten her hair. Very common in the old days.
So I ventured on through the rest of the week with very awful hair. The straighteners wouldn’t have made much of a difference to my hair, anyway. It’s been so hot my hair is beginning to look like an afro. It always goes all frizzy and weird when it’s hot. And when I say hot, I mean devilishly hot.
You see, the only months when it isn’t cold here are June and July. August if you’re lucky. Any warmth outside of this period is extremely suspicious. It’s only May and the northeast of England has hit 25 Celsius. I can hardly breathe. It has not got above 10 C in this country for about as long as I can remember. Even weirder, the hot weather has apparently come entirely from Scandinavia. I thought they only had snow. What the heck is happening? Hmm. I wonder if Al Gore is behind it. Maybe he’s trying to prove his point. Hmm. Just a thought.
So did I get outside to enjoy this fine weird May sunshine? Yes. I chased a two year old around a park and did my best to entertain him. I’m not very good with him. He looked bored. I was trying. I hope he knows that. I aint got a paternal instinct. It looked like he enjoyed himself. And I did too.
So, did my week end well? Of course it didn’t. You see, the trees-hedge-combo thing in the back garden was overgrown. Dad said, ‘hey, let’s have some hedge trimming fun’. He wasn’t as enthusiastic as I made that sound. But it was a chance to spend some time with pa before he has his tonsils out on Monday. Before a blissful week where he can’t shout at me. Oh, joy.
It was up to 26 C. I was standing on a rather bouncy shed roof cutting and trimming the large trees-hedge-combo thing with the sun’s rays beating my skin to a bloody pulp. Then the trees beat me to a bloody pulp. I had to sort of lean on top of the very sharp conifers to cut the ones at the back (them themselves impossible to reach from the other side). I’m scratched to hell after doing that. I’ve also had some sort of reaction resulting in small blotchy red spots. But, weirdly, only on one hand. And if that wasn’t bad enough, I spent the whole afternoon sneezing. Sodding hay fever.
Rather worn out, I retreated to my room for a blissful lie down and some much needed rest only to discover that most of my neighbours had their music blasting from their front and back gardens as loud as humanly possible. It meant I couldn’t open my windows. So I had the option of being suffocated and unable to get any rest or being deafened and unable to get any rest.
I so loathe this wretched weather.
“Weather is a great metaphor for life – sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s bad, and there’s nothing much you can do about it but carry an umbrella”, said Pepper Giardino.
Peace Out :|:
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