Yes, I know my Favourites Widget still isn’t working properly… It was nice of it to come back after going AWOL for over a week, but I’ve waited patiently and it STILL hasn’t got its act together. It clearly blew its mind in a mad orgy of drink, drugs and partying and no longer updates or even changes. I’m beginning to wish it hadn’t bothered returning from the wild, frankly! I feel like the wife who has awaited eagerly for her husband to return from the forces, only to discover he is a belligerent, lazy boor. *Sigh* I think there is only one solution: divorce from Technorati. You served me well for… One year. Wait a minute: ONE YEAR? I have pairs of knickers older than that which still work. Why didn’t I just have a list of links like on my old blog??? Gotta be clever, but *oh no* – and look what happens. I rest my case.
But I digress. I don’t know what it’s like in other parts of the UK or elsewhere, but in Bournemouth we’ve had bucketloads of rain for about two weeks now, breaking only long enough for someone to think they *might* be able to make a mad dash across town… Only for the heavens to open and soak you head to toe. Niiiiice.
If you have a buggy like me with a kid in it, this is even worse, with said small child complaining all the way: “Mummy, raining. Raining! MUMMY! STOP! STOP RIGHT NOW!” No darling, we must go in search of the elixir of life, ie. gin, for I have not stopped working literally day and night since January 1st on a variety of script reports, treatments and other secret stuff and without it I may die. (For those of you who wonder why my buggy has not got a rain cover, ask the delectable Crampon-Fred, who peed on it. Thanks cat.)
I have taken to getting the bus: it only occurred to nme yesterday that, unlike Devon where you get one bus packed with old people every three days, buses actually run every fifteen minutes and even have those delightful low floors you can get a buggy on. Except of course when weirdos block the gangway up front by standing next to the driver, even when there are perfectly good seats FURTHER BACK SITTING EMPTY DAMN YOU TO HELL.
But anyway: me and Kid were standing under the shelter of the bus stop as rain poured over each side. Two fourteen year old girls were sharing a crafty fag and in loud voices (their backs slightly turned away from me, as if it was someone else they were talking about), they started talking about me and Lil.
SCHOOLGIRL 1: Aaaah, that little girl looks so sweet.
SCHOOLGIRL 2 (Has a quick glance at Lil): Yeah, she does.
SCHOOLGIRL 1: You reckon it’s her baby?
SCHOOLGIRL 2 (gives me the eyeball): Nah. She don’t look maternal. She’ll be the babysitter or aunt or sumfink.
SCHOOLGIRL 1: What’s “maternal” look like you freak? She’s the Mum, innit.
SCHOOLGIEL 2: I’m telling yous, she in’t the Mum. She’s too thin. Mums are like, fat, innit?
This is when Schoolgirl 1 looks over and says:
SCHOOLGIRL 1: ‘Scuse me, you the Mum of that kid or the babysitter?
ME: I’m the Mum.
SCHOOLGIRL 1: See? Told you she was the Mum. Maternal… (mutters to friend) You can tell, she looks knackered, no make-up! Every day’s a bad hair day!
SCHOOLGIRL 2: Oh yeah…
Hoping you’re not having a bad hair day… Unless of course you are one of my bald readers. In which case, congratulations for becoming exempt to this problem.
What are you up to?