I’m a lady but ‘fuck that shit’ is still a perfectly good substitute for ‘no’

Imagine you’re about to embark on a trip to an unexplored planet far far away. Let’s call it Jedha.

I’m Princess Leia and M’s Hans Solo… Or maybe Chewbacca depending on time of day.

That’s what it felt like when we packed up and drove Darth Vader aka Reggie Maddog to Boston en-route to London.

Before we departed, friends asked ‘You must be excited for you trip?’

TBH borderline goddamn fucking terrified was more accurate. Even though I’ll admit I’ve contributed my fair share of carbon emissions to our planet I was now entering unknown territory.

My heightened senses fluster me. Smell, taste, sound, sight has revamped. Tolerance, energy, stamina has reshaped.

I kept thinking ‘Fuck, what if I shlitz my Vicki’s during check-in or what if my titanium skull sets the bells ringing in security or what if my brain blows at 40,000 ft.’

I was vexed at the thought of not being able to neck my usual aperitif of 3 shots of fizz in the lounge then 3 more onboard prior to passing out for 6 hours.

Fuckerty fuck this was going to be a tiresome journey.

The drive to Boston took 7 arduously dull hours, longer than the goddamn 3500 mile flight to Blighty.

Vador spent the road trip farting and barking at random truckers.

We finally arrived at my gorgeous sis/bro in-laws picture perfect home at 2am. Vador spent the night pacing with his lightsaber, a stick he’d found in the garden. At one point I woke with him sitting on my chest and I swear he said ‘I am your father.’

By the following afternoon it was obvious, I’ve become the dullest houseguest in the history of dull houseguests. I spent 23 of the 24 hrs at this house sleeping.

I finally pulled myself together and we left our gutsy hosts with their captor Vader and trotted off to the airport.

We cantered through security with no frisking required and galloped to the lounge.

All very relaxed. And fuck me it was bloody marvellous to hear the chitter chatter of English accents again. Techie boys, posh boys, twatty self-important boys… Felt like home already.

My guru called to wish us a good flight and as I had her on speaker everyone overheard when she loudly enquired ‘Have you taken your dog worming pills yet?’ Followed by ‘And has your shit been tested for parasites?’

All banter ceased and heads turned to stare at the freak show with the discernible bald patch. Nice one sista.

We then boarded, I attempted a glass of fizz. Two sips and night-night out like a light.

We must have bombed because I woke to the beautiful green green grass of Blighty down below.

2 hours later we were home and ‘oi oi saveloy’ there was the Cheshire Cat sitting in the garden purring and grinning from ear to ear.

Back to my little world far far away from the adventures of the last 4 months. Time to breath, eat and attempt to get messy on it at least once in the next 2 weeks.

*Please note that due to the comments of a self righteous bossy battle-axe I’ve used self control and refrained from using the cunt word throughout this entire post.

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‘You can’t arrest me, I’m a rock star’. (Sid Vicious)

What do you get when you put two super-sexy high-powered middle-aged Englishwomen, an 18-year-old thespian skinhead, a designer Australian Labradoodle with a questionable haircut and a bag of ‘special ’ gummy bears on a sofa together?

High as heck baby. 

One got jiggly, one got giggly, one got wiggly and one got licky.  Then they all got excessively munchy.

Luckily we’d pre-emptied this scenario and there was an extensive Japanese sushi banquet in the kitchen waiting to be inhaled.

I of course was an outsider looking in..  A spectator watching the spectacle unfold.  My current situation and cocktail of narcotics probably wouldn’t have been an agreeable mixer so I had to sit on the side lines of this little soiree.  

You might well think that Saturday nights in the house of a brain tumour person would be a tad tedious and tame..  But not around here honey.  It’s all about love and other drugs.

Having a goddamn mother-fucking brain tumour isn’t going to eliminate the good-time-party-girl in me.   

After all..  A little party never killed nobody and who knows what fucked up shit tomorrow might bring.

‘We’re only here for a little while, and you’ve got to have some fun, right?’ Burt Reynolds said it!

After this little blip in my tiny role on Earth.. I’ll never be afraid of any fucking thing ever ever again.. Apart from if I have to fly economy class of course. 

I don’t think I’m even timorous about dying anymore.  Not that I plan on expiring any time soon.  

And as a wannabe royal Sikh and ardent lover of dhal..  Mainly because some of my most special besties are Beautiful Sikh Dhal Goddesses..  I have a philosophical curiosity about the subject of reincarnation. 

I’ve been studying Reggie (aka Mr Fluffy) intently this week whilst he’s been dogging on my bed lap. 

You see, I’m convinced he’s the reincarnation of Burt Reynolds .. And the numbers add up.

Burt passed September 2018 and Reggie arrived November 2018.   Just enough time for everyone to re-group and recharge their batteries. 

Reggie definitely has Burt’s seductive racy brown eyes and spunky sense of fun. And of course he’s a totally devoted PUSSY LOVER

And on another note Friday is big bitch results day for Bambi and either she’ll be gaining a PhD or getting flushed down the loo with all the other undesireable body parts.  

Burt and Reggie

‘I don’t do drugs. I am drugs’

I think Salvador Dali said that.

This is how I felt all weekend. The anti seizure meds mixed with bouts of deja vu had me wishing that I’d experimented more with drugs during my youth. It’s hard to explain but I felt like I was in my own little bubble of euphoria and it felt weirdly good.

We were struggling to decide which surgeon to go with so I busied myself doing important things.. watching Cold Feet, eating vast amounts of hazelnut chocolate, online shopping for non-sexy practical hospital pyjamas and playing with the dog.

I also realised that I would’t be going to the gym for a while so I called and asked to put my membership on hold.

“Well you’ll need a doctor’s note” said Larry.

“But I don’t have time to get a doctors note” I replied “I’m going into hospital this week and have loads to organise.”

“Sorry but we need that note” insisted Larry.

Right, time to play the ‘brain tumour card’ I thought to myself.

“Look Larry, I have a brain tumour and I need to get it removed asap – I really don’t have time for this” I was starting to feel very slightly vexed.

“I’m sorry to hear that” answered Larry “but I can’t sanction suspension without a note.”

“Look” I added “I have some photos of my brain with a massive FUCKING tumour on it so how about I fax you over a copy of that?”

“Oh um no um don’t um do that um. I’ll see um what I can do um.” responsed Larry.

FFS REALLY?!

So Monday came around and it should have been D-day but instead it was President’s Day – apparently Mr Trump thinks it’s his day but in fact it’s Presidents’ Washington and Lincoln’s day. Sorry Mr. Trump.

Tuesday arrived and off I went for my extra special test. The machine was much like any other MRI machine but I think it had some extra special magnets that did some extra special things.

After pleading chronic claustaphobia I was handed a heavenly little cocktail to help me relax while they rolled me into the oven. This time I had a tranquilized hour of Chopin and no cursing required.

I was informed that the results would be available tomorrow.

I’m the star of my very own science fiction movie and I can make great Yorkshire puddings

According to the Urban Dictionary a jet setter is “a person who travels to numerous places around the world to places that other people always want to go but never do.”

Well that’s NOT me, even though some people say “Oh I’d love to have your jet-set lifestyle!” I travel back and forth to East Coast USA A LOT. Like I’m catching the No.9 bus. But I don’t do this because I’m living a jet-set lifestyle – I do this because my life mostly revolves around two people, my husband and my son – and inconveniently one lives in the US and the other lives in the UK. Subsequently I reside somewhere in the middle.

So two weeks after my ‘funny turn’ outside posh Peggy’s, I hopped on the No. 9 and headed to the US for a week with my beloved Reggie (Australian Labradoodle) and my husband .. just kidding M.

Arriving at my usual convenient time – bedtime; I went straight to bed. The next morning feeling a tad jet lagged we took Reggie to the beach for a run. Everything was normal … until a pair of obnoxious military helicopters buzzed by.

Then a curious thing happened – suddenly I was transported into my own science fiction movie, Interstellar comes to mind. I shifted back into that parallel universe and this time it was intense. Familiar faces appeared but I didn’t know where they were familiar from. A burning pain rose from my abdomen to my chest and then into my throat – and there was a dreadful smell so potent I could taste it too. Again this was familiar but I couldn’t identify it and no-one around me could smell it.

Within a few minutes I was back to reality and thinking “Wow that was weird.. am I going mad or am I Mystic Meg?!” I brushed it off as another unexplainable phenomenon and went home to make roast beef and some bloody fabulous Yorkshire puddings.. even though I say so myself.