Happy April people.
A relatively quiet March. I had a row with my laptop, and we had a flood in the dining room. This is about the total excitement one has had in the last four weeks. Tragic really.

This of course is not entirely true, although in their nature blogs are meant for diarising events and things of a nature that would be of interest to its readers, that said, my month has had many events happen, unfortunately none of which would either excite or would be of interest to any of you, so I find myself having to pick through the bits that I am willing to share. I should really have a separate diary that is a true reflection of my life but unfortunately if it were ever to be published into an actual book, then it would go under the ‘fantasy’ section and would never be taken seriously.

Who would believe that on a walk to a stone circle the other day, it was revealed that I was once murdered by my housemate in a past life (which is probably what she wants to do in this one), and that in a previous, previous life, I was a security guard for a burial ground? No. No one, although, the unbelievable cream tea I had after discovering this, was out of this world, so I guess it’s a take it or leave it situation. I definitely didn’t leave the scone and bake well pudding. I definitely took that. Shortly after this, my housemate then pushed me into a bench. ‘You didn’t have a big brother did you?’. No. No I didn’t. She definitely wants me dead.

My housemate and I tend to live in a Miranda esque world. We go around the area we live in pretending we’re at crufts. I do the whistling; she jumps over the hurdles, and zigzags her way round the lampposts. A recent visit to Quality Save, yep classy, saw me be responsible for the very premature death of twelve plastic rocking horses. I didn’t mean to break them all, but if you’re going to pile them up in a corner, and make them attractive to the eye, then yes, I’m going to want to play with them. Apparently they’re for kids. Who knew?
We have an affectionate nickname for each other which is basically the C word. That’s how we refer to each other. Now this is fine on a day to day basis. She is a teacher. And on half term such as now, the C word is prolific. She does however have to be careful when she goes back to school. I don’t think the parents would take too kindly to her calling their kids C***s but then again, they might behave a bit better if she did. C*** is said so often in our house that is has lost its abrupt harshness, and is as meaningful as the word milk. Unfortunately for our cleaner, I’m not sure she entirely appreciates this. (Yes we have a cleaner, what of it) The other day I left a note for my house mate on the mirror in the bathroom, to say thank you to her for being marvellous. I wrote it on the first thing I had handy. A sanitary towel. Dear C***, Thank you, you’re ace. Love C***. When I got home that day, the cleaner was coming out of the house; she came over to me, and hugged me. I’m not sure if it was out of affection, or simply that she thinks I’m mental. I don’t think the word C*** is easily translatable into Polish, but I’m just hoping to god, that she doesn’t think it is an English term of endearment, and start to use it in the other houses she cleans. The poor woman would justifiably think I’m insane. My jumper was on the floor the other day, inside out, and I’d put sanitary towels on the armpits to soak up my pit juice when I’d walked to Mediacity from Chorlton. They‘re very good at keeping you dry, and avoiding nasty pit stains in walking, or high stress situations. I’m a keen user of the sani towel in my pits when I’m on stage, and these days they’re so thin you barely know they’re there. I highly recommend it.

Gig wise, it’s always a little bit weird when you turn up to do a gig, and the promoter has bought a prostitute with him. It’s awful to sit and wonder if the woman is actually being paid to be with someone when you can’t actually imagine that person being with someone that young and that ‘attractive’. Anyway, apparently this little ‘situation’ has been a recent regular occurrence, and has really made me question whether or not I want to gig for this person in the future. At first I thought it was his daughter, and after some probing, not like that, she said she was in a ‘non-consensual relationship’ with him. Which was a worry. When I suggested that perhaps, if that was the case, I should really be ringing the police, she said no it’s ok, it’s non-consensual. I think she meant unconventional. I’m hoping she meant unconventional. I think I might start taking something with me to gigs, that I pay for, that satisfies me in ways I can only imagine, but I don’t think dragging a cheese, salad cream and radish sandwich about with me from gig to gig would have the same affect. It’d start smelling after a while, and I’m a fan old cheese, but not when it’s sweaty, wilting and on the turn. Old sweaty wilting cheese. That poor girl. I hope she’s being paid well.


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