23 January 2013

Looking a gift car in the mouth

As we were involved in a minor collision recently (amazingly NOT my fault) the insurance company has loaned us a brand spanking new white car.

Brand. Spanking. New. White. My family.

These are things that should never ever be together, like blue and green, matter and antimatter or Heather Mills and Paul McCartney.
Because if they do ever get together the result will be destruction on an unimaginable scale and will cause a rift in the space time continuum. Much like the rift in my bank account that will result from muddy little shoes, fruit rollups, juice bottles, scratchy toys and kicky feet coming into contact with a freaking brand spanking new and white car!!
I have now mounted a 24-hour vigilance over the damned thing. I rush out the door and shoo away birds that fly near it. I peer through the curtains and glare at anyone who passes and dares so much as look in its direction. The postman must now leave the mail on the pavement. I insist that children hold their breath as they walk past my house. I chased a little old lady with a stick yesterday because she spent too long hobbling past it. And its not even my car!!!  
There is a reason I drive a 500 year old piece of junk. It’s so that I never have to worry about it being dirtied, scratched, bumped or broken into and so that people give me a wide berth on the road because I look like an unemployed uninsured crazy lady driver.
Somebody please take the thing away.
God knows how I’m gonna get it back to the hire company. I can’t possibly drive the thing.  
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11 January 2013

The baby Cheesus

I am in love with a cheese ball.

I know it’s wrong. I know it’s the love that dare not be voiced, the love that has no name. But I just cannot help myself.
Recently I went to a drinks party and there on the buffet it stood in all its magnificent glory. Spherical perfection. Formidable fromageness. Cheddarlicious cheesiness. Encrusted in thick black wax, a chorus of halleluiahs accompanied the opening. I imagine it was something like that at the birth of the baby Jesus.
My cheese comes from Sainsburys. The perfect cheese ball came from the milk of virgin cows raised on the summit of mist encrusted Welsh mountains and cannot be purchased in a mere shop. I imagine one must make supplication to the cheesemaker direct three years in advance together with payment and an essay demonstrating an indepth understanding of the cheese tasting experience and your worthiness to be in its vicinity.

I still dream that we will meet again. That I will spy that beautiful rounded body across a crowded room. But it is only a fantasy. And the knowledge that I will never ever ever have that gorgeous irreplaceable taste in my mouth is killing me.  
And now I am alone with just my memories of that cheese ball. I can’t even look at my Sainsburys cheese now, with its revolting rectangular shape and its declaration of being “mature”  - oh wow, how exciting, you are mature.
You disgust me.
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