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» Blood

When I was about 8 or so, I suffered with really bad nose bleeds and this incident led to my nose being cauterised (ow).

I was casually sitting crosslegged in my nightie, talking to my Mum about The Far Away Tree and Mr Moonface or some other nonsense while my Mum was soaking in the bath.

I sneezed, nothing unusual there. Wiped the back of my hand across my nose and encountered the familiar sight of blood and thought fiddlesticks (in a Far Away Tree stylee) went to stand up to get a tissue to head a splat on the tiles. I looked down to see firstly a big bloody patch on the front of my nightie which made it look like I had been disemboweled, then I looked at the floor and saw that I had sneezed out a blood clot roughly the size of a tennis ball *spews*

Alarmed, I alerted this situation to my Mother by saying "Mummy, a lump of meat fell out of my nose".
(Thu 7th Aug 2008, 15:06, More)

» Advice from Old People

Ok not particularly old....
One of my best friends always used to say to me, "When you haven't got that much time left, you just have to keep things simple". This was a day when she sat me down and told me she had terminal cancer and I cried my eyes out. She was actually refering to us going out and just having fun. But she applied it to all areas and it really worked for her.

Oh and that day we simply donned a couple of her wigs, went to the pub and got thoroughly bladdered because she was trying to cheer ME up.

She was an old soul, in a young body which unfortunately gave out at the age of 32, I read her eulogy at her funeral last week.
(Tue 24th Jun 2008, 14:03, More)

» Driven to Madness

This is going to be truly cathartic
Mr GOTW has never had to do anything himself, when he was at home his mother did everything, and when he lived with his best friend, he used to fold Mt GOTW’s washing and I am (annoyingly) perpetuating this cycle because it is quicker to do it myself. RAAAAAH!

I shall list his daily offences:

He runs around in a blind panic shouting: Where are my keys/wallet/oyster?
He leaves his bag and shoes in the middle of the hall for me to trip over and then tidy away.
He always managed to leave his wet towels on my side of the bed.
He uses a new cup every time he makes a brew because he has left the other one somewhere.
He uses half a bog roll to wipe down the mirror in our bathroom after he’s showered so he can preen.
He never cleans up any of his spills various spills, there are more rings on my kitchen surfaces than the Elizabeth duke display counter!
At the weekend he changes his clothes about 4 times a day and leaves them on the floor, over a chair, on the newel post at the top of our stairs
He steals my socks and sometimes my pyjamas

Things that are probably genetic:

His feet smell like they are rotting most of the time and his socks, when I go to wash them, are rigid *barf*
He spills stuff all the time, down himself, on our couch and always on the bed sheets particularly when they are clean on.
When he thinks I am out of earshot, he farts, cups it in his hand, and sniffs it.
After a night out he barfed in the drain outside our house (and then panicked when a week or so later, mushrooms started growing out of the drain). When he finally made it indoors that night, he crashed into a bookcase and it fell on top of him, I found him asleep under it when I got up for a glass of water.

Things at the realms of stupidity that he has recently done:

He decided the dishwasher was a bit grubby and decided to clean it by emptying half a bottle of fairly liquid into it and switching it on. Once the Ibiza foam party was underway, he panicked used all of the bath towels to clean up the mess and then hid the towels in a bin bag in our spare room.

The first day back at work after we moved in to our flat, Mr GOTW left the door open, not ajar, no, OPEN and ON THE LATCH!

He put my massive steam generator iron on the wrong end of the ironing board and when it toppled off the board and broke, he switched off the power leaving the iron to burn a bloody great hole in the carpet, I found him hiding down the side of the bed on the phone to the iron manufacturer, credit card in hand, whisperingly ordering a replacement part and when I asked him what he was doing he screamed like a girl. Ha.

In spite of all of these annoying and ridiculous things he does, I love him to bits and couldn’t wish for a better boyfriend and I am sure that he finds my obsessive cleaning habits just as irksome.
(Fri 5th Oct 2012, 11:26, More)

» School Naughtiness

When I was in Junior School we used to have to file into assembly to classical music and in the last year a rota was run to delegate the privilege of setting up the teachers chairs which were metal framed with a canvas seat and back.

Even as a 8 year old I had a very accute sense of justice and felt that the chiding I had received from Mrs Lee, Head Teacher and professional fat ass, for doing handstands, was completely unjust.

As I and a few others dragged chairs across the parquet flooring of the gym, I thought about how much I hated Mrs Lee and wanted to give her a chinese burn. I lifted a chair from the stack and noticed that it had a long rip in the middle and was quite frayed around the edges. A plan began to formulate....

I put it front and centre where Mrs Lee would usually sit and lent on the canvas with my elbow, I heard a faint tearing noise and the plan was crystalised. I would let Mrs Lee do the rest.

Soon the time came for us to march into assembly to Tchaikovsky's 1810 Overture and with bated breath I waited for the music to stop and for us to be seated. Mrs Lee started her monologue but I didn't hear it, I was waiting for the moment and then it finally came.

She sat.

The canvas gave way and she plunged arse first through the metal frame, arms and legs waving frantically as the skirt she was wearing colourfully framed her dimpled hairy thighs and greying pants. 200 7-11 year olds and a few teachers giggled hysterically as two male members of staff reluctantly came to Mrs Lee's rescue and removed her from the fram by bracing one leg on the chair and pulling her out by her arms.

In my mind, I hear her POP as she is freed.
(Fri 9th Sep 2011, 11:01, More)

» Funerals II

Little Wing
I sat next to her bed and held her hot, dry hand as I watched her chest gently rise and fall. I told her that I loved her and promised to have a Malibu and coke for her and kissed her forhead as I left, was it my imagination or did I feel her squeeze my hand ever so slightly, my confidante and comfort, even at the end. She held on until all of her friends had visited.

I sent her mother a card. Inside it read:

Dear L,

Firstly, I just want to how sorry I am that J lost the battle she’d been fighting for so long. She really did put up one hell of a fight. Not only that, she did it with dignity and humour. I’ll miss J very much – as you know she was one of my oldest and best friends, I always admired her enthusiasm for life, her complete openness and fact that she never judged anyone. Not to mention her perfect comic timing and hilarious one liners!

I feel truly blessed to have had J’s friendship she was a courageous, sparkly girl and I know it’s said you should never meet your heroes because they only disappoint, but J never disappointed. Anyway, I just wanted you to know how special I think she is.


I couldn’t quite grasp that she’d gone. My thoughts were circular and all of that unrealised potential broke my heart. I can’t believe it. I can’t. It doesn’t make sense. I can’t believe it. She was my best friend, I was going to be her bridesmaid, godmother to her future children, the old bat she went to bingo with. Injustice mingled with relief that it was over.

J’s Mum asked me to read my note at the funeral and on the day, I sat with her other best friend P and eyes fixed on the coffin, I couldn’t believe she was in there. A brief moment of hysteria when P and his fog horn voice came in too early on the verse of a hymn, flatly echoing around the church. We both made our way up to the lectern and I numbly gripped P’s hand as he sobbed.

As we stepped down, her favourite song started to play, Angels by Robbie Williams (overrated, but I still can’t listen to it). I feel this sharp lump of grief forcing its way out, my shoulders heave with the effort of holding it together, I hiccup sobs and my face crumples as tears pour out. Now I understand and the realisation of my own mortality weighs heavily.

It took me a very long time to get over it. One night I woke up sure that someone was in my room. In the darkness, I could smell cigarettes and her perfume, strangely comforted and a little weirded out, I eventually fell back to sleep and when I woke up the next morning everything felt a little better than the days before. I didn’t go for grief counselling but I wish I had. I would advise other people to take it if available, even if you don’t think you’ll need it.
(Mon 15th Apr 2013, 13:57, More)
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