The healing power of fashion.

'Urgh,' I said when I opened my eyes this morning. 'Urgh and yow.'
I went out see, last night, to a gal pal's house, there was wine drunk and some sort of quiche eaten, then more wine was drunk, next thing you know I"m back home, NOT talking (for fear of sounding slurring) and trying to tidy the kitchen.
'You probably should go to bed.' The paramour said as I tried to tie two plastic bags together for no discernible reason.
I nodded in agreement, went upstairs, washed my face and then I woke up this morning.
Ugh.
With a cold.
And a hangover, a... hold.
Less than amused at this discovery I made my way-gingerly- downstairs.
'Bindrow?' The bigger of the cats said.
'Velly.' I replied in Christopher Lee's voice, opening presses -which sounded like trees falling- and putting the kettle on- which sounded like a waterfall and then an explosion.
I sat at the table to wait, noticing as I did that my ear are blocked and my throat feels like it's tied up with razor wire.
Truly mingingly awful.
'Oh woe is me, bigger of the cats.' I cried, admiring the way he can sit in a chair and look remarkably like a person. Well, if I knew any black and white furry people. 'Woe' I say.
'Ech-narp.' Said he.
'Pork! I should co-co.' I laughed, but I stopped laughing when I realised there was an AK47 going off in a metallic room somewhere nearby.
I made coffee and a hot lemon drink.
I carried them in here. My footsteps were sonic booms.
I switched on the Dapple. A small grenade, followed by an orchestra.
Bling, it said loudly, and a red dot appeared in my mail.
Spam spam spam spam, work related crapology, work related crapology.
Bah!
But then...what's this? An email, from City Gay no less, that most elusive of thistles.

'Darling, I"ve got two tickets to the gala opening of Kildare Retail Village (http://www.kildarevillage.com/Kildare/home.asp?lan=en) tomorrow night. Want to come? It's gala Darling, you'll probably need a new gúna! Pm me, we'll have a drink in the Fitz and then grab the bus!'

Retail? Village? New dress? Moi!
Who has time to be ill? Who has time to be hungover? There are dresses to be hunted. And lo, I have new shoes upstairs just waiting for an outing such as this.
Oh fashion, you never let me down.
I love you.
Kissy kissy.
FMC

My new language and the giddy girl.

As some of you know I"ve had a rotten cold pretty much most of the weekend and at last it is showing some sign of abating. However, much as I feel slightly better, there is still one area in which I am suffering. My speech. Or radder, by speedgh.
It seems every time I get a cold my head gets bunged up to hell and it takes DAYS for it to clear, rendering me ridiculous sounding. Country Gay refuses to speak to me on the phone as I sound,'weird' The paramour laughs when I ask him for things like "Bass de budder.' Even Etheline could not resist a denied snarf when I told her I couldn't go for lunch "becob I hab a colb" 'No shit' she said 'I would neber hab guessed.'
Quite frankly, I'm getting a bit tired of it all.
However, these laughy types are friends and family, so a certain amount of tolerance is required, plus a certain storing of ammunition should any of them ever be less than perfect in the future. Call me Rudolf all you want paramour, but some day vengence will be mine.
I do however take great exception to being mocked and laughed at by so called professionals!
I let my gym membership run down some months ago as I had taken to running in the park as so on, then Memnoch left for Hamburg and I- naturally-have used this time to eat cheese drink wine and generally take a break from most thing fitness.
But woe is me. For a quick skippity hop on the scales on the weekend suggests that my body is 'aving a laugh and storing fat like a rampant squirrel facing the ice age.
'Eeeeek!' I said to The bigger of the cats, 'By Mudder warned me did would habben! Ugh, what's dis? A sudden crabbing for jelly Babies! NOOOO!'
So, after tears and tantrums and sniffles and a completely blocked head due to the tears, I took myself off yesterday morning to join a new gym. It's near the house and I shall go every day to restore my body to it's previous state.
I parked in the huge carpark and entered the swing doors and approached the reception where a perky girl gave my red nose the once over.
'Hello' Perky girl said.
'Hellob!' I lied, 'I'm thinking of joibing your gyb.'
She began to laugh, 'Oh no, I'm sorry, but every second person today, hahhahha, seems to be heehhe smothering.'
'Yes, hilarious.'
'Did you want to look around?"
'Yes.'
She took me on a tour, and it was quite impressive, she was yip yapping as we poodled along. 'We doing a special once off rate at the moment and if you sign up now this covers you for full membership including our classes. Except the yoga and Pilates, they're extra.'
'Can I comb at abby stage during de day with did.... whooosh!'
'Hahhaha, yes.'
I blow my nose and frown at her, she is clearly delighted, or on speed. Also I notice she is Australian. perhaps that is it, for if my great knowledge gleaned from Home and Away had thought me anything it is that Australians are a strange bunch.
'The ladies dressing rooms are to the right and the pool has no shallow or deep end.'
I nod.
She looks at me, disapppointed. 'Do you have any questions?"
I shake my head.
'Okay then.'
We head back to the front desk and she hands me a sheet of rules and a sheet for my medical history. (where I resist writing 'born of a jackal' ) She's blathering on and I'm trying to think of words that don't have 'v', 'g' or 'th' in them.
'What about extra passes?' I say and beam for I said it in clear and concise English.
'You get three with this bag, oh and your locker key and a free hand towel is inside, after that it's twenty Euros a guest.'
'Ribe' I say.
''Heh, also we have a coffee dock and hairdressers.'
I scribble out my forms, fill in my John Hancock in total silence and pay. Before I can pass the paper back to her I am wracked with another of those VELLY annoying dry hacking coughs that seem to last for ages and leave me red faced and gasping.
I grab my bag and nod at her, making my way as fast as I can to the door, for I can feel a tickle in my throat, which means more coughing.
'Wait!' She cries, 'you need to have your photo taken for your swipe card.'
I skid to a terrible halt. Why, I berate myself silently, had I not thought of this,(sick) Why had I not worn make-up, (sick) Why God why? (agnostic)
She points to a chair and I fallump into it miserably. A small desk mounted camera points my way.
I try to push my hair back from my face, but the effort of walking, breathing and trying not to cough has made it sticky and uncooperative. It's almost cobwebby.
'Smile!' My perky gal from down under says.
I grimace at the camera.
'All done' she says, but now she's not smiling.'This will be ready in the morning.'
I flee, chocking , coughing, wooshing until tears run down my slightly swollen cheeks.
This very morning I went down to pick up my card.
I'm looking at it right this second.
At least I think it's me, I could also be looking at an eggplant, an aubergine, a radish of some sort. My effort to keep my cough in, combined with my radioactive nose and slitty swollen eyes has translated to the very worst photo I have ever seen of my in my entire life. I am a red faced beast, one of Dante's creations, a vermillion puffer-fish.
Fubbing hell.

For Finn! De memories.

Because happiness is just a steaming hot shower and a bowl of chowder away. Also, look where we aren't.

One of those cold days.

It's cold.
Ryanair and Airlingus have sneakily upped their charges on the QT. The cold hearted bastards.
Some woman is giving out about clampers on the radio. She is boring me cold.
Brenda Power is on next. She leaves me cold.
Puddy is asleep on one of my best jumpers. I haven't the heart to move her, the pink bellied slut.
Angelina Jolie has adopted another child.
Robbie Williams is a bit of a twat.
My email is chocka block full of spam. Do I want 'red hot insider info on stocks'? Or 'little blue pills for her pleasure'?
Eddie Hobbs gives me toothache, why must he have an opinion on everything, the witless little hobo.
I have a mysterious pain in my back. I wonder is it due to cold?
I have work to do that I can't be bothered even starting. My fingers are too cold to type.
Phil Spector looks like Clay Aitkin.
The bigger of the cats has a cold. Every time he sneezes he looks startled.
I have to go out in the cold soon-to run around Marley park-in the cold. Did I mention it was cold?
My friend just emailed me from Barcelona, it was 27 degrees there yesterday. I used to live there, it was not cold.
There is no bread for toast.
Urgh, just kill me now, at least then I then I'll be roasting.

UPDATE: It is now snowing in my back garden and the sun is splitting the rocks out the front.