Here’s the story of frizz, moss, and badgers.
Ever fancied a cheap, homemade sauna? Here’s a real good tip I discovered this week, all in the name of achieving your very own steam pantry. You see, what you do is cook yourself a lovely dinner in the oven. Pork chops work best. I mean, sure, a sauna is all fair and well, but a sauna that smells of pork must be even better. Anywho, you have your lovely cooked pork chops, you take them out of the oven, you eat them and… you forget to turn the oven off. Which is a bit of a problem if it’s for… an hour. Or two. Perhaps more. Still, look on the bright side. You have your very own sauna. I actually think the worst bit of all this is that my extremely long hair goes all frizzy in hot and steamy places. And I don’t look so good with an Afro. Honestly, I walked into that kitchen, completely unaware the oven was still on, my hair nice and flat like that of 1990 Kate Moss, and I came out looking like 1970 Diana Ross. It’s not a good look readers, it really isn’t…
Yes, mother and father are still away and they’ve been dumb enough to leave me on my own, which, sure, doesn’t sound like the end of the world, especially considering I’m nearly 27. But I’ve never lived on my own and I don’t know the first thing about living on my own. In fact, at 16 days and counting, this is the longest I’ve ever lived alone. Sure, a pork chop is still stuck to a freezer drawer. Sure, the white bathtub has turned black because it’s coated in so much of my hair. And there are a rather large number of funky smells coming from various places. I’m often rather amazed by the fact the bleach we buy doesn’t come with instructions, other than, ‘put in toilet.’ Okey-dokey. Cut to two minutes later. Well, I’ve been pouring this in the toilet for two minutes now, is that enough?
And sure, the garden is horribly overgrown because dad didn’t teach me how to use the new lawnmower because last time I used it, it was the old one and I ran over the cord, ripping it, and father’s trust in me to use a lawnmower, absolutely to shreds. It’s so overgrown, it really is. I think we have a family of badgers living in it.
Still, it’s not all bad. Remember that precious hoodie I lost on the bus last week, you know, the one my nephew bought me in Sydney? I got that back this week! Yea! Eee, I spent a good portion of a post two weeks ago praising the Stagecoach bus company, then most of last week’s post slating the Stagecoach bus company for not finding my hoodie, and now, I guess, I’m spending far too much of this post praising the Stagecoach bus company. Again. I guess I should wait until events have concluded before commenting on then. Regardless of this small victory, I’m exhausted. How do people live on their own? Siri isn’t helping. “Siri! Fire! Fire! Fire!” “What would you like me to do?” “Oh, I’d like to write me a bleedin’ ballet, you muppet!” I guess I’ve had an up and down couple of weeks. I couldn’t, for the life of me, open the front doors at the Stagecoach depot. ”Ah, it says ‘pull’.” Silly me. The receptionist had to come and help. I wouldn’t even be that bothered by this faux pas, except she was the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Why do I always make a complete tit of myself in front of really pretty ladies? It wasn’t even the end to the mayhem. Only moments later I found myself careening into one of those wire basket things on legs they have in the middle of supermarket aisles. As I said, up and down, up and down…
Saturday was the day I was dreading. You know how much trouble I have with public places, what with my social anxiety, complete lack of knowledge of the world, and, you know, general dislike of being around people. I’ve seen mum do this a thousand times before. A big shop. It’s a script, and one I must follow if I’m not to be seen acting like a total maniac. Which is, rather often, my default setting.
What do normal people do? Erm, write… write a shopping list! Yes, that’s what normal people do. Is it meant to be depressing? “Ah, I only need the essentials. Milk and bread. Just that really. Ah, and here I was worrying about all the money I’m about to spend on food. Oh, crumbs, I almost forgot, I need more bacon.” I’ve been alone for two weeks. I’ve already worked my way through three 14 rasher packets. Seriously. “Oh, and I need more pizzas. And mash. And pork chops, come to think of it.” Two weeks. Must be about 18 pork chops I’ve munched my way through. It’s amazing I’m only ten stone, isn’t it? I’m officially underweight. To reach my desired weight I’d need to put on another two stone, which is… OOH! More bacon and chops!
My shopping list grew exponentially, meaning now, with three weeks until mother and father return, I have… ooh, £12 left from the £30 mother left me. “Don’t worry, you won’t spend more than a fiver,” she told me. Hmm. I was starting to wonder if I could do without food, but my blood sugar levels were crashing so I made the decision that breakfast was probably rather vital to, you know… keep me alive. I’d hate to think what’ll happen if I die now. The badgers will probably have me for supper…
Since the shops are 20 minutes away, through thick woods and up steep paths, and considering the day was very warm, I knew I wasn’t going to have a pleasant time of it, primarily because I’m on foot. I can drive, but not well enough that I trust myself behind the wheel of a car.
Learning the script became vital information as I arrived at the supermarket. I had it all mapped out. Those of us unfortunate to live a sheltered life hate not knowing what we’re getting in to. So I had it all mapped out in my head. Walk in to the supermarket. Bread on right. Basket on left. Pizzas five yards on the right. Bacon and pork chops end of the aisle. Milk on farthest aisle to the left, along with the crisps. Checkout three often has the smallest queue. Bags in one hand, money in the other. We need logic and order to function or, without, the world is like a Salvador Dalí painting. Melting. And full of clocks.
Of course, the bag situation is uncontrollable. You see, you have a checkout lady swiping your items and you’re at the other end trying to get them in a bag as quick as you can, whilst more items are being thrown at you, whilst you have like, a billion people behind you growing increasingly impatient because they think you’re taking too long! And you find yourself, in a panic, stuffing as much as you can in your bags because the pressure of a thousand angry people is growing by the second, only realising later on you’ve put the bloody milk on top of the bloody bread! ARRGH! How do people do this every week! I’ve never been so stressed out in my life!
I say I’ve never been so stressed out, that was until my walk home. Honestly, my bags were so heavy my arms felt like they were about to fall off. I have very skinny arms, by the way. No idea why. And you know what the worst part was? It was so damn hot my pork chops were starting to cook in the Sun, and you know what the worst part of that, was? The smell had attracted a hoard of bees. Honestly, I ran home surrounded by a swarm of bees trying to get at my food, and when mum and dad have asked the neighbours to ‘keep an eye on me’, it really can’t look good from their perspective to see the person they were meant to keep an eye on, running with two shopping bags, covered in bees, screaming, “BEES! BEES EVERYWHERE! GOD, SOMEONE HELP ME, PLEASE!” I counted 10 bees! THAT’S 10 MORE BEES THAN I’M COMFORTABLE WITH!
I honestly think that, by the time mum and dad get home in three weeks time, the entire house would’ve descended into a tribute to Mad Max…
American aphorist, Mason Cooley (1927-2002), once said: “Living alone makes it harder to find someone to blame.”
Peace Out :|:
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