Morning madness

Standing in Exmouth Market's Starbucks I looked out only to see the "hole in the wall" bloke blowing raspberries to someone. Imagine my relief when it turned out that someone was a little girl in a pushchair...

Ironing

I fucking hate it. I'm looking at the iron right now (yes, while typing, I'm great like that), over to the pile of clothes I need to do, great big sigh... You get the picture. I don't need a cleaner, but I think I'll get myself an ironing lady. Fuck it, cleaning and ironing lady.

I mean, there's so much stuff I could be doing instead of ironing!

1. Watch Heroes. Why did nobody tell me how cool Heroes is? Fuck you all!
2. Sneakers shopping - I need a new pair, urgently
3. Massages. I sooooo want one. Neck and shoulders. No "you're a little tense, darling" jokes please, I know I am!
4. Call my best mate I haven't spoken in about two months (time flies, indeed)
5. Read. One of the 7 books I either haven't finished or not started yet. Serves me right for picking reading material because it will make me look clever on the tube, instead of something I fancy reading.
6. Book a riding holiday. I think I need it. That's the one with real horses, chaps.
7. Get ready for Dublin. Which brings me back to the ironing, I need to get it done, together with a bit of a clean.

"Just to see if I would care"

When the current Mr Stoner told me he had OCD a few weeks into our blossoming relationship, I didn't have a grasp of what that would or could mean.

OCD, that's those people washing hands and checking a million times if a door is locked, or that's what I thought.

I didn't know it would mean that he had to say something in his head until it sounds right. Even when he told me, I didn't realise it could take minutes. Hours. Or days.

When he said he was worrying about people a lot, I thought he just cared a bit too much. I didn't realise it meant that they will die if he does or doesn't do something.

I've got an easy way out now, I have the chance to leave and not look back. And right now I don't know what I'm going to do.

It's not a binding contract, honest

I do have my clever moments but most of the time I'm somewhere floating about in La-La-Land, and it's easy to catch me off guard.

Well it's happened two days ago, gone 8pm, doorbell. I've got video entry and this dude outside tells me he's here for gas & electricity, holding his badge up. Since I had spoken to my supplier only a week ago, I just let that bloke in thinking he was going to check the readers downstairs.

Moments later he's at the door of my flat, asking if I was the tenant that had lived here before. To cut the story short - he was from npower telling me "I was still on the expensive supply with eon" and if I would be ok with npower ringing me to give me cheaper prices.

Sure enough, and he starts filling in some form. Watching over his shoulder I notice it says "contract" at the top and has a direct debit agreement slip as well. He keeps telling me that it's not a contract and shows me the "next steps" in the brochure conventiently covering the word "contract" with his hand.

I told him I wouldn't be signing anything tonight and I think he got the message that I was awake enough to realise he was trying to fuck me over.

His reply? "Oh it's because I'm black, isn't it, don't trust the black man".

He'd left me with the brochure including the contract. Of course it WAS a contract. Of course it's legally binding with a 14 days cool off period. However, had I believed what he told me (that it's not a contract) and waited for the confirmation, those 14 days would have been over and I'd been in the doo-doo, potentially.

I kid you not - what a f*cking moron accusing me of being racist because I pulled him up? Twat. Npower should better check on their representatives practises.

Everton away... in ... Dublin!

Everton away, lovely weekend trip up north, couple of drinks before, after and in between? Not if that's supposed to happen over Easter, because with any bank holiday, the train lines are fucked at least somewhere in the country. And that's usually the part I was going to need.

So with a train trip out of the picture, there's always the coaches... well had it been the team coach, okay - but I won't share a 6 hour round trip with West Ham's finest (train spotters) on a coach that doesn't allow drinks.

And the car, well the car is great to get there, but who would be mad enough to stay off the sauce just to make sure someone is sober enough to drive back the next day?

A bit of creativity was needed, and it manifested itself in my friend H who suggested we should watch the game in Dublin instead. Dublin? Fooking Oireland?

So we're off to Dublin, it's great, I've never been anyway - and my first ever Guiness is long overdue!

Sneaking back in

I feel like Paris Hilton staggering out into the flashlights after a good night out when she's just spent 4 weeks in rehab - well make that a year in my case...

Not that any celeb would spend that much time in rehab anyway. The Priory and others seem to work wonders within only a couple of days, releasing their loaded (see what I did there?) clientele back into the open arms of their wired fake friends. Maybe I'm being harsh but that's not how "getting clean" works.

Anyway, my antics are long gone and after nearly year off any sort of drugs, I'm leaving my self-imposed rehabilitation programme and get back to what I love - having a mighty knees up around some football game!