Moan November 15, 2006Posted by BiB in Uncategorized.
Gosh, can’t times be hard? I don’t mean I’m living through the blitz, or a blockade, or have been taken hostage or don’t have enough to eat and will be happy if I get a bit of tongue on my ration card this month. No, just modern hard. Sort of easy hard. Still, good enough reason for a bit of a moan.
Now I’m a great believer in the blame game, so let’s look for some scapegoats, shall we? Well, November deserves the death penalty – at least – for a start. I’ve done my November moan before, but could there be any ghastlier month? It’s ugly. The weather’s cack. Not even properly cold. Just cack. And guaranteed to make you and everyone in your environs sniff till December 1st. I’m foghorning away with the best of them and the Russian is also a great believer in making the most out of an illness. It’s all wailing and noises of such drama that I have to dash next door to check that the latest production isn’t a death rattle. “Darling, what was that incredibly loud and spine-chilling noise?” “Oh, I just sneeff.” And then he sniffs, to prove his point, and then gives a tuberculotic cough, to prove it again. I’ve got aches and pains that a 36-year-old, by rights, shouldn’t have. I might see if my posh insurance will cover me a Christmas prezzie of a hip, knee and shoulder replacement.
And don’t even talk to me about wanking technology. And about wanking blogger. For some days, I have been battling to be allowed to use my own wireless connection – brand new. A faggot above a load, if you ask me, though I may be about to get addicted – and battling for another equal number of days, at least, to try to get in touch with blogger. How I loathe companies who do their best to hide their contact details from you – yes, I mean you too, Amazon – having instructed you to get in touch in the first place. But blow that for a caper. We can soldier on regardless. Effing and blinding all the while that blogger and all its employees deserve eternal misery and damnation.
But, darlings, what’s really put me to shame, and made me have a bit of a moan, with the only possible scapegoat being myself, is being outdone by my mother. I telephoned, filially, this very evening and we did our regular rundown of family gossip. I gave her my non-news. She gave me hers. I said I’d probably be boycotting Christmas this year. She said she’d harangue me till I caved in… “And have you e-mailed J_ for me to say how happy I am that she’s had a baby?” “Oh god, I can’t remember,” I confessed. “If you had a computer, you could, of course, e-mail her yourself.” “Oh, I don’t want to get involved in all that.” “You could still watch Emmerdale,” I put in, by way of compensation. “And Eastenders. And Home and Away.” … “Do you know, I was in the gym last week and there were three TVs showing three different channels.” “The gym?” “Yes, I go about once a week,” explained my mother. Talk about secret lives. I thought the omnibus editions were as exciting as my mother’s life got. And now I know she’s probably hanging out with more muscly queens than I am.
Wake me up in May.