“I’m a goddamn astronaut and she should know her place…”

[chaletian]

Oh, chickie pies, look at this! Nearly February and I’ve hardly shared the fascinating tales of my life with you at all! Actually, it’s a miracle that I’m doing so now, because I had a steroid injection on Tuesday for tendonitis in my wrist and now I am the veriest cripple. Fucking ow is what I said at the time, and I stand by that judgment. Poor darling Katie has had to make dinner twice, now, and make custard (an endeavour barely worth the effort, sadly – fucking Bird’s custard, what’s happened to you?), not to mention practically having to undress me. Oh, it’s been a solemn couple of days at Fangirl Towers.

OK. No. You know us too well. It hasn’t been at all solemn. We have, as ever, been all jokey jokey and then laughy laughy. Good times.

In other news: work is still awesome and still vee busy and I have hopeful hopes of being rebanded up (pay rise!), but we shall see how that goes. Um, what else? Week before last I had a miserable, miserable cold and had to take a couple of days off to cough myself into oblivion in the comfort of my own home. I went to see Helen and hang out round the bus stops at her local Sainsbury’s. Jill came to stay last weekend. We watched quite a lot of TV, topped off by Grease 2, which was a little treat for us all. My brother and his betrothed (lol) are trying to buy a house. My grandmother hid all her money in the safe place, then wrote herself a coded message about the location of the safe place (you can’t say she doesn’t learn from her experiences), then tidied away the coded message, then couldn’t find it. I told her that when she carks it we expect to find the house stuffed full of money and lost Christmas presents past. It’ll be a riot.

Speaking of riots, it’s that time of the year again. ‘What time is that?’ I hear you cry. Wrestling time. Oh yes. Once again, Emma and I are heading to Wembley to watch men ‘wrestle’ (as I have said (humorously) before, ‘I’ve not seen anything that choreographed since I was last at Sadlers Wells!’*). So, that will be fun**. Additionally, this year we apparently have tickets to meet the wrestling stars beforehand. It’s going to be a tough job, trying to stop Emma from molesting AJ Styles, but I will not shirk my duty.

And finally, a small treatise on the 493 bus route. The 493 bus route, for those not familiar with it, goes from Manor Circus in Richmond, past our house, through Roehampton, Putney Heath, Southfields, past Wimbledon (the tennis club), Wimbledon (the village), Wimbledon (the actual town bit with the station), finally shopping up at St George’s Hospital in Tooting (where I work). In terms of my commute, it is very handy. Less handy, however, are ALL THE FUCKING CHILDREN! Oh my God! The 493 is also essentially a school bus route, as it seems to go past half the schools in south west London. And those children… they just clutter up the front of the bus, deaf and blind to the increasingly fervent announcements demanding that they move down the bus, just staring ahead with the kind of ovine malevolence that you know I deplore. I want to blow them all up, frankly. Tragically, that is unlikely to happen. Especially with my dodgy wrist. I weep for the future of our nation, darlings. I weep.




* A lie for comic effect: I have never been to Sadlers Wells.

** Also a lie.

Comments

[mrsrev.livejournal.com]

I feel your bus pain. The number 2 goes from outside my house to town, passing several schools on the way. They won't move down the bus because, you know, if it stops they might not manage to get off. Or something. Cos obviously grown ups can just walk right through them when *they* need to get off. And if you ask them to move aside and they do acknowledge you, they just about breathe in a little bit. I should be flattered that they think I could get through that little space, I suppose, but I'm not. Grrrr. /end bus rant.

Errrr, sorry... Just pushed one of my buttons!

Hope the wrist gets better soon and glad the new job is OK :)

[ungratefulwench.livejournal.com]

I firmly disapprove of children on public transport. On trains I always try to sit in a carriage that contains none of the little bastards and then about ten seconds before the door close a pile of them bundle on and cause me epic amounts of annoyance. God damn them all.