1) The dog ate my homework Miss
Whilst my pooch is far more discerning than to scoff an exercise book full of pictures of willies, the littering of D- marks and the perpetual critique 'must do better' (read: must stop talking about boys and drawing pictures of willies and do some chuffty work you cretinous turd) and would much rather feast upon a bowl of tripe or another hound's butthole, this excuse isn't quite as literal as that.
You see the 'homework' I refer to here is my laptop and 'the dog' nibbling it is actually my mini gobstopper pouring a whole can of Coke all over it. Brilliant.
But like a faulty Catherine wheel your Dad singes his pinkies on, then curses wildly and tries to pretend his actual words were 'duck' 'hunt' and 'Horlicks' as if he were some cocoa supping Elmer Fudd riddled with Tourettes, the pooter fizzled and popped with a lack of enthusiasm that left even me hoping the damage was minor.
Alas no, the lack of pyrotechnics and the crestfallen look on binky wink's little mush before he went back to the much more satisfying activity of repeatedly thwacking the dog in the noggin with a froggie maraca was not an omen of the limited feckery done. In fact I was half expecting Polish virtuoso and ivory fiddler Chopin, to sneak in from the cemetery looking all bit crusty grave minger (and possibly doing the dance to Thriller), crack his decomposing fingies, take a pew and the strike up a chorus of The Funeral March as I feverishly tried to mop up the sticky pop and turn it back on. Not a mother pigging peep. Oh piss off Chopin, you miserable old bastard.
So excuse number one is this: Laptopless and only able to communicate via pigeon and sending the mutt out with a note attached to her collar (fruitless because firstly, she is not a clever St Bernard and her map reading skills are woefully lacking and second, she doesn't even wear a collar - she refuses to be 'owned' by anyone. Sweet Jebus, you wouldn't believe how many times we've heard the 'I am a not a numbnut, I am a free pooch' speech. Yeah whatever Patrick McGoohan, eat your tripe and shut it) I have had no way of getting my daft gibberings to you.
It's ok, I know you've missed me but wipe up your tears petal and take down your Sproglet Bloglet shrine because it's actually a bit embarrassing and the neighbours are starting to worry about you *casually covers up own shrine to Wicksy from EastEnders and goes back to rocking and muttering quietly to self in corner whilst stabbing voodoo doll of Cindy Beale in the bum with a safety pin*. And besides, I'm baaaack mother wuvers!
So, having finally taken down the banners, tidied away the streamers and hoovered up the cakey crumbs from my laptop's welcome home party and allowed the Hubble back into the bed where my lovely pooter has been slumbering soundly (for that is surely what it means for you to do when you press the 'sleep' button and put its little nightcap and jim jams on. Oh, it's only me who does that? Oh. Right then. Erm...) for the last week or so on an orthopaedic memory foam mattress, I am ready desist licking it fondly and actually do some tippity tap typing.
All drinks however, now have to be consumed from the giant sippy bottle I have attached to the lounge wall in the manner of a gerbil cage. The honking great wheel for flump face to wear himself out on whilst I sit on my bot watching Jeremy Kyle and gargling vodka all day, is being delivered next week.
2) Alllll byyyyy myseeeeelf!
In the gloriously self indulgent words of above power ballad I have been all alone, sans the Hubble, fending for myself and my wee bakey bean like some dazzling example of iconic single parentdom such as say, Kerry Katona...but without the penchant for stealing shit from Woolworths...or hooking up with anyone I happen to flash my scouse twinkle at...or spending all of my money on tracksuits and crack...in fact nothing like Kerry Katona at all. More like Diane Keaton in Baby Boom. Yeah, that's definitely more like it.
The Hubble, gawd bless his industrious wee soul has been down't pit morning, noon and night, earning money so
Thus, in turn I have been on 24-hour button bum surveillance, watching his every move as he bungee jumps off the sofa with the aid of the pooch's lugholes as elastic support, reprogrammes my phone's language to Ancient Greek and submerges his face, my laptop (noooooo!) and anything else he can lay his sticky little trotters on in the dog's water bowl. Any ideas I may have had of getting on tinternet and regaling you all with stories from my très exciting life (read: actually dull enough that stabbing yourself in the eye with a Biro begins to look like a reet rollicking barrel of monkeyshines) became laughable.
In fact, thanks to the added bonus of boogie woogie's current separation anxiety and his desire to stick to me like a verruca (albeit a super cute one that doesn't necessitate a mangy plastic leper sock to cover it every time you come into contact with other people. Or water. A bit like a Mogwai really) I have found that even taking a trip to the bog requires a military operation and stealth manoeuvres involving camouflaging both the pooch and I whilst she covers my movements by distracting the teeny crumpet with her 'sit-down-lift-back-legs-and-pull-anus-along-carpet' act (a real crowd pleaser that one. Well, that is if the crowd consists of Mr pooky pants and the neighbours' cat. Who thinks the dog is a complete bell-end but likes to watch the bewildered humiliate themselves. Cats eh, they're such bastards), whilst I peg it to the loo and piss like a pregnant horse.
At present however, my delicious Hubble has returned home and despite wondering why the carpet is covered in poop crumbs, why the pooch and I are wearing camouflage and why the neighbours cat is editing home videos to send in to 'You've Been Framed', he doesn't ask because frankly I think the giant gerbil water bottle in the corner of the room and the fact that I am wearing a look not dissimilar to Jack Nicholson in The Shining, says it all really.
Thus thankfully I have a little time back in my day, say between 7pm and 7.08pm, when I am free to do whatever the hell I damn well please. That's right, I can take a lengthy wee with the door locked, I can put the kettle on and make a cup of tea (what do you mean 'and drink it'? I know not of such exorbitance and luxury. Who the bleedin' hell are you anyway? Are you that la-di-da smug moo who scoffs all the Ferrero Rocher at the Ambassador's shindig? Yeah I know your type, you whole-cup-of-tea drinking bint) and I can walk in and out of the living room as many times as I fancy without having to exit on my belly like a deflated blimp.
But most important of all course, I get to write my lovely sprogy blog. Or at least pretend that I am writing it when in fact I am searching eBay for Ghillie suits, gold dentures and a cat taser (a special request from the pooch). Oh and watching the hilarious YouTube uploads of 'Moggy_LMAO_13' featuring a strangely familiar hound wiping its crack on the carpet of some poor unsuspecting...oh hang on...
Sooo, in the words of Gloria Gaynor, I'm back, from outerspace (arguable actually since I still posses the expression of a slightly unglued moonbiscuit) and hopefully you've forgiven my absence and general slothfulness. But if you haven't, my wool pulling has done nothing to cover your eyes and you still think I'm a dismal poo-stained scroat-scratching loafer I will apologise once more:
"I'M SOOOOO SORRRRY!"
Man, that even LOOKS insincere. Oh well, I promise to try to do better. And I'll post some shiny, new and exciting *pffft!* musings for your delectation *pffffffffffffft!* very soon. Unless
No comments:
Post a Comment