Diary of a Nobody etc etc The Universe often

excerpts from Diary of a Nobody not to be confused with the Nobody in the eighties this is the Diary of a Nobody who has a bruised bum!

The universe often throws up strange questions for me to ponder and answer, when Google fails to produce an adequate answer!

Like “Is it really worth a bit of pain and discomfort for clean hair and a soak in the bath”, well 2 hours ago whilst lazing in steaming hot perfumed water, squeaky clean hair piled atop of my blissed out head I would have answered abso-bloody –lutely. Fast forward 25 luxurious minutes later to a crumpled cold wet naked body attempting to alleviate the excruciating throbbing pain in her fractured coccyx, that has once again sustained the fall of a large fat bird who has just tw*tted her naked broken ankle on the chair she was attempting to slide up on to, and no, you don’t see small tweeting birds circling your head like the Disney cartoon figures do, you in fact see blinding white light (possibly an NDE) whilst simultaneously experiencing white hot pain rapidly changing sites between ankle and coccyx at the speed of light, whilst a sea of nausea makes its presence known by threatening to produce ones lunch of olive pate on toast, washed down with a generous mug of coffee, if one dares to attempt movement of any description. Fast forward a long drawn out hour that felt like eternity to a scene of a fully dressed figure once more safely deposited on my computer chair, ankle throbbing mercilessly, though now strapped back into a half cast, whilst said figure attempts to find a position that doesn’t further aggravate the now screaming coccyx which I believe is screaming something along the lines of” stop falling on me, you fat bint or loose some weight you lard arse! “
Giggling I ponder the question again as the heady happy pills distance me from the Looney toon balancing on one cheek, whilst elevating an angry broken foot now sporting a fetching stripy sock worn jauntily on the end of the cast like a Paul Gautier beret . Nope Its not worth it, is my resounding reply to said quandary, painless solution to said problem of mucky hair when washing is prohibited due to brokens bits liberaly scatted about ones person! Get a friend to buy you a hat and some strong smelly incense. As ones hair apparently self cleans after a few weeks if one can cope with the smell, hence, the incense. So in future weeks should you decide to call in , you will find me wearing a fetching hand made tea cosy (Ive stapled the spout hole and velcroed the handle hole to allow quick access for phone calls etc ), surrounded by swirls of heady nag champa smoke, chuckling away to myself after receiving a visit from the “Screaming Ab Dabs Faery” who is the unfortunate issue, of an alleged incident between the “Lost it Completely Elf “and the “ Ok Just One More Faery” after a knee’s up in the Dog an Duck got a little out of hand……… buts that’s another story

Diary of a Nobody etc etc Speed dating

excerpts from... Diary of a Nobody, not to be confused with the Nobody in the eighties, this is the Diary of the Nobody who has a bruised bum!

June 12th

The” Hands across the Water” speed dating evening was a complete let down you see………

These Goat herders (like London buses tend to roll along in threes) arrived in a posse and blatantly started offering to slaughter young kids for my pleasure, well after scraping myself off the ceiling in response to the thought that I’m being stalked by a network of paedophiles intent on murder, the grey fuzzy cells kick in and I remember baby goats are called kids, Ooooops in jumps the vegan and bending their ears mercilessly on the horrors of carnivores and if slaughter houses had glass walls etc etc…… a deathly silence ensues, glazed looks on their baffled weather beaten faces. I feel a diplomatic hat plop atop my fuming head, allowing them a moment to justify their actions they meekly point out that they lovingly slit their own kids throats after rearing them and looking after them, protecting them from smaller carnivores ,wolves ,rustlers or just other goat herders Hmmmmm not wishing to appear a culinary snob I rifle through the dog eared memories amid the chaos of a defunct filing system laughingly referred to as my brain and scramble about looking for some common ground (hopefully not blood stained) on which to parley, finally we stumble onto the wonders of living under canvas and the stars ( being a yurt owner myself ) then just as quickly run out of things to say and gape helplessly at each other as the dawning realisation hits that its more than an ocean that divides us. BING. So no budding romance for me as I watch my ticket out of single Ville shamble off towards the next table muttering to themselves, shame goat herders are in vogues at the WI coffee mornings, fair trade an all that” shag a peasant week” went down a storm . So where did I go wrong? I’m left wondering was it the veganism? Or the yurt versus goat herders shack argument? ………… actually I think it’s more likely the gob-on-a-stick woman syndrome! (Of which I am a chronic sufferer) I heard them say I don’t know my place! This is apparently collecting goat shite for the fire to cook his kids on! The cheek of it, mind you Id best sign up for a “goat herder’s wife experience workshop” if I get a certificate who knows …. Wouldn’t want to appear lacking Id never live it down at the next Oxfam “feed the world” banquet 5 courses of delicious food and all free how wonderful is that! How do they afford it?

Moon xx