Posted On: 21/09/2012
By: Scouse Bird
Apologies for the length of time it’s been since my last blog. I’ve recently decided to take the plunge and commit to living with my fella. My excuses for not putting acrylics to keyboard range from the stress of moving house, to writer’s block, to not bein able to find my laptop charger in a tangle of wires that resembles a particularly bad case of bedhead the day after a backcombing sesh.
My advice is this; don’t move house. Don’t bother. It’s solid like. There’s a million and one things to do, everything from the soul destroying packing your stuff up where you wonder every 5 mins “How the hell have I got so much stuff??” to your fella telling you he’s stressed cos he can’t decide what TV to buy. Er. You’re stressed? YOU’RE STRESSED??? Frig off lad, all you’ve gotta do is get ur arse to currys to pick our new 1000” 3d HD all singin, all dancing badboy an then whack ur 10 t-shirts an 5 pairs of jeans in a suitcase. Packing up just my wardrobe is a feat in itself (6 large suitcases and 2 binbags if anyone’s wondering, and no I still haven’t got a thing to wear) – let alone my make up (2 large boxes). Then there’s all the fiddly stuff that needs wrapping like mugs and plates. Basically packing can just do one, I’m never moving again.
Anyway the day finally rolled around and Saturday morning, 1 hour before the removal van was due to turn up, we still hadn’t even finished packing up my house, not by a long shot. It was SOMEONES bright idea to go out drinking the night before, that same SOMEONE wanted to stay out drinking and put it this way that SOMEONE is not a drinker of handbag vodka. Luckily some good looking and wise person who is an enthusiastic advocate of handbag vodka had the sense to call it a night before midnight. Nonetheless we were still feeling pretty delicate. By the time the fella turned up at 10am we were just sealing up the last box and sweating like wool birds in a kitten heel factory.
I whizzed off the to the new house in a delta clutching my spenny John Lewis martini glasses – sif I’m trustin my best cosmo glasses to some brutes in a ford transit – and left the men to get on with it. I later found out that they’d generally been causing havoc ripping washing machines out the wall without turning water off etc etc, luckily I had to go back to the old house to get a TV power lead which SOMEONE had left on the floor and neglected to pack and the Virgin fella at the new house was about to swerve us an go on strike cos he needed it to install the boxes and god forbid SOMEONE should be without Sky Sports for more than an hour…..anyway I digress, I went back and the kitchen was flooded. Cue me screamin down the phone to me dad telling him to come and fix it cos I had to go the Virgin man was waiting – worra prinny I am. What would we do without our dads though eh birds?
Meanwhile back at the other house I half expected to come home to find SOMEONE making a fort out of cardboard boxes but instead they were connecting their ipad to the new wifi and seeing how sky sports looks in HD. Priorities.
I put a wash on only to find that somewhere during the move the washing machine had took the knock. I found this out after opening the door, innocently assuming the wash had finished, and being met by a waterfall of water all over the new kitchen floor FML. I was not a happy bird. Thank god I hadn’t just done my tan there’d’ve been murder. In fact I hadn’t even had time to tan all week. I was pale and stale.
I went for a meeting in town this week as “scouse bird” about a possible exciting new project and one of the first things that was said was “You’re way less tanned than I imagined.” Proper sly on me that. As a punishment to me and those around me I’ve spent most of this week smelling like biscuits, it’s just not good enough, I let scouse birds down everywhere.
To summarise:
Don’t move house Pale is stale
Number of undies picked up off floor so far: 12
Inabit
Scouse Bird
