Once again I make a twat of myself

Well, the eye is on the mend, I think, still have to put 8 lots of eyedrops and 1 lot of eye cream in every day and go back to the clinic on Friday where I will get to while away a few hours in a waiting room before having my eyes examined by the most humourless doctor in the known universe. But it could be worse, I could have had to have the surgery they threatened me with so I'll take the extended wait in the eye-clinic of misery followed by Dr Cheerful anytime.

On Saturday we went to a BBQ. Mr V had a badminton dinner to attend and so I was left to my own devices. For this reason I blame him entirely for the carnage that ensued. By the time Mr V departed, me and The Best Friend had already drunk our way through some campari and orange juice and quite a lot of pink wine. Then the host, a lovely lady who I was meeting for the first time (who has moved in with a friend we've known for ages) suggested that me and Best Friend help her make punch. Massive, epic error. In went a bottle of vodka, a bottle of wine. some grape juice and some grapes (which Best Friend attempted to mash in the jug with a spud masher). Then some more wine went in and some orange juice. The booze content was massively higher than the non-booze content but to our already slightly pissed palates, the punch was not revolting paint stripper, it was fruity happy-juice. And so we drank plenty.

This is maybe why quite a lot of the evening is missing. Things I do remember include howling (and I do mean howling) along to Singstar in front of a lot of people we don't know, one of whom is a member of an award winning, well known band. I have been informed that I was sitting in the garden with Best Friend smoking cigs (I gave up two years ago so christ knows where I thieved them from) and sniffing poppers like we were 15 again. And probably talking absolute shite. I have very little recollection of going home although I do dimly remember removing my false eyelashes, shoes and trousers (not top or makeup), lying on the bed with the room moving about around me and thinking "This is really going to hurt in the morning". And it did, it really really did. I spent the entire day on the sofa trying not to move and to recollect a) how many years it was since I'd been that plastered and b) exactly how big a twat I'd made of myself. I didn't come up with an answer to either question.

Sometimes Best Friend and I are so classy it's painful…..

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A proper bastard of a day

It's now 1am.

Did I watch the England v USA match at the pub? No.

Did I watch it at the barbecue I'd planned to be at? No.

Did I watch it at all? No.

Why? Because I spent this evening in A&E. Or the ER for those of you in America. The scratch on my eyeball that I went to get seen to at the walk in centre this evening turned out not be a scratch at all. When the man at a&e, where the walk in centre sent me, looked at it, turns out it's a shard of metal from watching a bloke on site use an angle grinder to cut pipe, it's still stuck in my eye and it's infected. Well done me. And after spending an hour with various sharp implements trying to pick the metal out of my eyeball, he announces that he can't get it all so I'll have to be referred to the eye hospital. Oh joy. Net result – I have to be at the eye hospital at 3pm tomorrow for some other bastard to pick at my eyeball while I try valiently to not pass out. Winner. There's so much more to blog about from my visit to a&e but I'll be honest, I'm struggling to see the funny side right now so I'll have to write about it later.

And did I get sympathy from Mr V when he returned from the pub where he had watched the England game? No. Because Mr V is redefining the concept of pissed. Mr V had to be assisted up the stairs and unceremoniously dumped, fully clothed, onto the spare bed where he merrily bellowed 'LOOOOOOOOVE YOOOOOOOU' repeatedly down the stairs. Great. If he thinks he's going to get sympathy for his self-imposed hangover when I am facing the prospect of having my eyeball probed with needles again he is in for a very rude awakening….

 

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The Fridge-Witch is circling again…

 

 

Once again the Fridge Witch has swung into action, breaking yet more rules of toilet etiquette and just plain normality.

As I was stood in the toilet cubicle this morning getting some loo roll to blow my cursed, hay-fever ravaged nose I heard her approaching the lavs, coughing and spluttering. Of course she's heading my way, the bloody woman is bog-stalking me. Not wishing to be liberally sprayed with the germs from the 430th virus she's brought into the office, I shut the door. Now it was plainly obvious that someone else was in the loo with her but what does she do? Sits down in the cubicle opposite mine and starts humming away to herself while having a noisy dump. What the fuck?? EVERYONE knows that the rules of bog etiquette are such that you NEVER ever have a dump while someone else is in the other cubicle. Even if you have advanced dystentary you stand in the cubicle, hanging on, praying to whatever deity you follow, until the other person has left and you are alone in the room. It's just how it is. And humming while cranking one out in the company of a colleague? That's surely a sign of insanity.

But that's not all she's done this morning? No folks, the Fridge Witch is the gift that just keeps on giving.

About 45 minutes after 'Turdgate', I went into the loo for a pee. As I returned to my desk my phone was ringing. I picked it up and it's the Fridge Witch, who is manning reception until the usual receptionist arrives at 9. "I've got a call for you" she says. Well thanks for the heads up love, I kind of assumed that the call was for me, as you called my phone to put it through. Anyway, she puts it through and it's a chap I've got to rearrange a meeting with, who sounds a bit bemused. "It's not often I get a running commnetary from reception" he says. I ask him what he means. "Well", he tells me, " I asked for you and the lady on reception informed me that she couldn't put me through because you were on the toilet. Then she said, 'oh wait, she's just coming out of the loo, she must be finished, she's heading down to her office now so I'll put you through'. Not many receptionists share that level of detail". Really? Can you guess why that might be? Because it's utterly fucking unprofessional that's why. And how does she know I'm in the loo unless the mad bitch is spying on me. This is following hot on the heels of the 'coming into the loo while I was having a piss to inform me that someone was on the phone for me' incident. The woman is obsessed with my toilet activity and it's starting to scare me. I'm going to go down to reception in a minute and tell her in no uncertain terms that telling someone she doesn't know that the person they want to speak to is on the crapper is utterly unacceptable behaviour. Does she think the Queen's secretary acts this way? "Oh I'm sorry, her Maj can't speak to you right now, she's gone for a shit. You could hold but I think she'll be a while, she went in with a copy of Horse and Hound. Actually I'll just stick my head round the door and see where she's up to. Liz…Liz…you done yet? Oh right. No, she's going to be at least 20 minutes I'm afraid and I've got to go round the palace and tell everyone else to give it ten minutes once she's out. I'll get her to call you back".

The woman is a fucking nutjob, plain and simple.

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