Steps Must Be Taken.

Being unable to safely use the stairs at the mo, because of my almost broken ankle, I thought it prudent to dig around under my stairs for a bucket.
One flaw in this plan though, is that the only place I have to empty it is upstairs.
Damn!
A further mistake, which I've just discovered, is leaving it in front of the video recorder when you're not too stable on your feet!
I think some went into the DVD player, too.

Still, on the bright side, it shouldn't contrast too starkly with what broadcasters have to offer us, these days.

Right then, I'd better get back under the stairs to root out that bottle of shake-and-vac that I've been holding on to for when I finally get fed up with my olfactory senses.

Journey Tale, ER.

As usual, when the sunny weather starts breaking through, the adventurous side of me awakens, bringing with it the first (of many, usually) trips to QEQM's ER dept.
It turned out to be a sprained ankle, a result of clambering over the rocks at St. Margarets Bay, but it hurt like a badly split nail!
And I had to wear one of those silly gowns that don't do up properly at the front, affording a bird's nest view to all and sundry, and that ridiculously uncomfortable cut to the shoulders that make it feel like it's on back-to-front.

On the bright side, the doctor told me to keep my weight off it for a couple of days, (which I think I may be able to spin out for a week, as far as work is concerned), and that I should refrain from keep crossing and uncrossing my legs, at least until he'd finished his examination and left the room. I won't pretend to understand how that was going to help, but he was the doc. so I acquiesced.
Funnily enough, he did seem quite a bit calmer after that. Guess he just doesn't like fidgets.

Anyhow, to any well wishers wanting to send me flowers, could you please send them along to Eastcliff Richard, as his garden is looking truly awful since his gardener got extradited back to Paraguay!

'king Street!

Looks like someone left the chimpanzee cage door open in 'king Street again, last night.
I wouldn't describe myself as shy and retiring or the nervous type, but I don't walk along there after dark, if I can help it.
The problem with that, though, is I live there, which kinda makes it difficult to avoid!
I don't even understand the language that they use, and I've a sneaking suspicion that they don't either. As I walked past one knuckle dragger, his 13 year old girlfriend and their imp-chimp-mobile, all I could make out of what he was shouting into her ear was something that sounded like "woo arrgh gob went innit an' be wada fat cunt, uh".
What the Hell does that mean?
In the meantime, a particularly sunken eyed and slope foreheaded young gentleman decided to lay his bicycle across the path in front of me, presumably so that I didn't have to tread in all the little puddles of spit outside Bolockbuster, before disappearing into the place. I wonder if he'll manage to work out why his bike has suddenly developed a bit of a wobble, now that a good deal of his spokes are bent to buggery?
And then, of course, there's the York Arms smoking room (thanks to the government, now on the pavement in front of the pub), which is constantly full of some of 'king Street's finest. I don't recall, ever, walking past the place without some kind of lewd proposition being lent in my direction!

I suppose that'd be the road's only redeeming feature, really!

So glad to have got that off my chest (as was suggested that I do with my bra, outside the York Farm last night)!

Self Licking Pussy.

Alarmed upon finding my pussy feverishly hot and moist, yesterday morning, I thought a trip to the vet might be prudent.
After running a few tests (no CAT scan though, har de har har), the vet informed me that the poor little love had developed an allergy to animal fur!
On his recommendation, I now have to shave my pussy once every ten days!

As if I don't have enough to do!

Onward Christian Soldiers.

I'm one of those 'lucky' souls, and I'm sure there are a few others who can sympathise, that seems to attract all manner of loonies.
I only have to stick my head out of the door and there'll either be someone trying to chew their own nose off, someone 'driving' a suitcase along the road or a pack of God botherers lunging for my knocker!

I'll put up with it for most of the time, smiling politely and nodding my head in what seems to be the right places, but I do struggle to contain myself while in the pub with a gut full of beer.

So, sitting in the pub with a gut full of beer a couple of nights ago, I was accosted by 7th dan God-fu expert, enquiring after my religious status.
He seemed a little agitated and confused when I told him that I was a devout Christian in my previous incarnation but, this time round, and with a penchant for straining fruit preserves, I'd decided to become a Muslin.

"You'll burn in Hell!" I was told.

I think he may be mistaken about that, as I have no intention of going to Margate, what-so-ever!

Dopeless Healer.

Shane McUntishness of Betty Hill, Scotland, was reported to have stated, during a trial at his local Sheriff's court, that he had been high on marijuana because he was trying to cure his Aunt Floss McUntishness of her heroin addiction, and that he may well have been able to stop her dealer from supplying her, when he scored said marijuana.
The court, dealing with the divorce of Rupert and Myrtle Cockshaw, adjourned for twenty minutes while Shane and his Aunt Floss were taken into custody for further questioning, according to the World Weakly News, last Thursday.
Shane, after being let off with a caution and advised not to return to the court, unless told to do so, told reporters that he was just fed up with his Aunty constantly nicking his telly and selling it to feed her habit. And he sincerely hoped that his demonstration in court would be an inspiration to Society for generations to come, before going home to listen to the football on the radio.


I'll bet he ends up being sent to Margate!

Water Off A Duck's Back.

Being such a lovely day yesterday, I thought I'd stretch the elastic and bimble off to Kearsney Abbey to picnic on the lawn and feed the ducks with all the bits that I'd bought in Netto.
I was having a wonderfully relaxed time when, just as I was polishing of the last of my scotch egg, I spotted some fella standing on the bridge over the pond, pissing on a group of ducks!
Coming from Thanet as I do, I'm not easily surprised by odd human behaviour, but the very idea of what this guy was doing had me mildly outraged!
Consumed with anger and a little curiosity, I went and asked him what he thought he was up to.

"They looked cold" I was told, "and I was just trying to warm them up a bit!"

"Well, er, ok" I replied, "but what about all these children that are playing, around you?"

"None of them looked cold!" was his deadpan retort.


I think I'll just pop down to the beach, where there aren't any ducks, from now on!

It's Worse Than That, He's Dead Jim!

Moving away from the ridiculous fiction that is TDC for a moment, tonight sees the opening of some much more feasible fiction, in the form of the latest Star Trek movie at the Granville Theater in Ramsgate.
And it's going to be a themed event to boot, with Trekkie costumes, phazers and sound effects supplied by popcorn munchers in every second row.

Can't miss that!

So, to get us all in the mood, let's have a re-cap of the highlights of the last Star Trek movie...

Life On Mars Confirmed By Netto!

Reading one of my favourite weekly, er, newspapers earlier, I was instantly drawn to the plight of the Renshaw family, Ipswich, where their nine year old son, Alice (dad is a bit of a Cooper fan), was allegedly poisoned by some confectionary.
Netto has since confirmed that there was a problem with one batch of Mars bars at it's store, and has ditched the radical new idea of combating the current heat wave by storing them in the cheese chiller.

Alice's mother, Evelyn (37) was reported to have stated that "We may as well have fired the Mars bar through a really high powered microwave, into a pair of Alice's pants, for all the mess it would've saved us!" The underpants, ultimately, had to be destroyed.

Political Mass Debate.

Much as I love Eastcliff Richard's blog, some of the ninnies that comment whenever the subject is political in nature (as it often is, these days), just seem to go from weakness to weakness, it seems to me!
My God, they'll argue about the colour and consistency of a dog turd!

And reading all those speculative 'facts' that chop and change for the sole purpose of winning an argument, rather than uncovering some 'truth', is depleting my boredom gland at an alarming rate!
At this rate, the usual subjects in the pub, on a Saturday night, are going to seem quite captivating.
If I end up pregnant on the strength of this, I think my chums at the CSA and I are going to have to review, between Dickie and me, who actually is Ramsgate's new millionaire!

Still, each to his own, as they say.
I believe they also say that about wankers!

Dog Day Afternoon.

Wow, this weather is impressive, eh?
Yesterday saw me mowing the overgrowth from the verges on either side of my landing strip, donning my bikini and soaking up some rays on the beach.

Best make the most of it I thought, as today, being May 1st, I'm no longer allowed on the main beach unless I walk on my back legs, shave the rest of my fur off and resist the urge to growl at people!

It's that last one that always lets me down.