How has yet another month swept by with no blogging?? I watched ” Good Girls” recently, and there’s this bit where Christia Hendricks says “since when did life become this giant monster that we have to feed ” and I’m here like —>
God I love Christina Hendricks…who doesn’t. Anyway, the long and short of it is this: I AM going back to uni. In one week. I’m terrified, but in a sort of pleasant way. Now all I need to do is rip the house apart in, oh, 3 afternoons so it’s in a livable condition, do the pre-course reading, catch up on the pile of marking which is currently threatening to cause a landslide in my bedroom and get the bulk of my wedding planning done before my life is swamped by study once again. It’s all good, I’m fine. Broadly fine. This is why the good lord invented cupcakes.
I always find, in times of high stress , it’s the little things that tip me over the edge. Like yesterday, when James and I had to get a rail replacement bus. We thought we’d neatly sidestepped the flapping and chaos, because we had allowed so much extra time for our journey- only Brighton to Worthing to attende James’s grandparents SIXTIETH anniversary dinner (goals). Sadly this was not so. We got on the peasant wagon , thinking the journey would be half an hour and painless, but no. Twas neither of those things.
We were promptly joined by a mother and child. Now, let’s just make it clear from the get-go I am not some mum-shaming , child-hating cow, but Jesus , there’s a limit…Anyway, the bus sets off, and it becomes clear very quikly, from the amount of map-flapping and the bellowing voice of googlemaps, that this driver has no clue where he is going. Pretty quickly the infant to my rear starts being a little dirtbag, illiciting much whiny-voiced pleading from his mother (which I hate, let’s just all agree right now that children do not respond well to begging).
I look at James, and see that he is definitely on the verge of infanticide, and decide it would be best to travel in complete silence. After half an hour of little fists appearing round the side of my chair and scratching me with monkey-like claws, and being bopped on the head with a helium balloon, and having the drink-rest on the back of my chair pinged vigorously up and down, all to the tune of “ooooh don’t do that ” said with about as much authority as a flip-flop, I’m about ready to take the wheel myself. We are still nowhere near our destination, James is literally perspiring with the effort of not going full-Hulk, and an old lady on the right has started jeering and heckling at the driver, who has turned up Bland FM , and is pulling over every five minutes to check the A-Z, because apparently this bus travelled all the way from 1992. At this point it’s little more than an asylum on wheels.
Just as I’m thinking it probably can’t get any worse , I am swallowed by an odour that could wilt an entire crop. I then hear the immortal words “mummy I need the toilet”.
“Seems reasonable” I think to myself, holding back the vomit – the journey is taking a ridiculously long time.
But no.”Well the toilet isn’t working darling…just do it in your nappy if you need to and I’ll change you when we arrive”. After about ten more minutes of holding it in, and vigorously farting, the poor child then voided his bowels quite extravagently, causing me to legit dry heave as the bus swung , at the same twenty mile an hour pace, through Lancing, for the second time.
“No darling don’t put your hands in your nappy” – at this point I lurch forward , aghast with horror, imagining the little paws that have been patting at me for the last forty minutes, looming round the side of my chair with a fistful of feaces . Then there was some screaming- looking back I’m not sure if it was me or the kid, or even the old lady. Based on how energetic it was, I guess it was the kid.
Then I notice that James is looking pretty wan, and wincing in pain, and like he might be about to need some kind of chaise and smelling salts, but sadly, due to the look in his eyes, I am too scared to ask him if he’s ok. Thankfully James’s sister Steph and her husband Liam pick us up from the station, unfortunately, it is as this point we are alerted to the fact that the smell of excrement has clung to us like Chanel No.5.
We finally arrive in Worthing, with a whole fifteen minutes to get ready (from unwashed and smelling of literal poo to fishtail-chiffon frock chic, takes longer than this), and when we check in, it turns out that the cyst on James’s hip, the one I’ve been nagging him to get sorted out forever, has chosen this moment to grow to the size of a fist, and is basically a sentient being, with a complex back story and its own hang-ups and political views and selection for Desert Island Discs. It’s fucking corpulent and red and angry, like Micheal Gove, but less full of shit.
Being that there’s not much we can do at this point, I whack a bandage over the seeping bit, and we scrub up to go and celebrate the blissful matrimony of John and Yvonne. Thank God for Pimms.
The celebration itself was gorgeous- we had a lovely meal and a chance to catch up with family and Grandma and Grandad are a huge inspiration to us both. Having just discovered my own parents are splitting up*, I needed to see some matrimonial harmony and a happy ending. They still love each other as much as the day they first met and it’s really something to behold.
So this morning, a little fuzzy headed, we head back to Brighton, and lo, Sid the cyst commited suicide. James popped into the bathroom to change his plaster, and a moment later I here ” Dear… DEAR…HELP”
Sid had ripped open and exploded. It was deeply alarming, I may never be the same. So James is stood there with his Johnson bouncing around in my face while we both attempt to mop up what’s left of Sid the Cyst, and finally what’s left, is basically a bullet-hole. I have no idea how this happened, but now I’m terrified he’s going to get fucking sepsis, so I spend the next forty minutes runningaround Brighton on a Sunday night trying to get holf of bandages and antiseptic, muttering ” I told you so” under my breath like some sort of lunatic.
In summary- I haven’t done any of the stuff I was supposed to do this weekend, true love exists, don’t leave a cyst unattended, if there’s a replacement bus service just don’t fucking go , there is always Pimms and cupcakes, keep your first aid kit well stocked and never , ever ignore your wife – or she will firmly attach micropore tape to your pubes in revenge. I’m literally looking forward to Monday Morning, to relieve the stress of not being at work.
*literally cannot even talk about that RN.