The Used Pedal Bin

I found them, dear reader, I found them.

Granted, only one box was permissible and they were thrice the price of a box in the sane(ish) world of yesteryear, but I have finally found them.

EGGS!

Now, I just have to figure out how to ration them. 

I will keep the receipt. I may even frame it. For now, it is nestled between the other receipts in my receipt filled wallet. The receipt outweighs the money by about 10 to 1. This is logical, you might say, but the miserable thing is that they are receipts for stuff that is needed rather than wanted. For instance, I need soap and cat food, but I want a fancy new bag. Alas, the wants are not to be mine at the moment. 

My great aunt came around today. She demanded a cup of tea in one of the “good cups”. This means one of the cups that she gave to me and not the “every-day” ones I bought from Argos. She reminded me that I should lock my door as anyone could be crawling about the streets, told me about the new microwave she had bought and it’s “fabulous” defrost function, and then read me the obituaries out of the newspaper before leaving me with a used pedal bin that she allegedly didn’t want to go to waste. 

I wonder what joys tomorrow holds…

Tinsel Withdrawal

To quote one very famous and rather dishy pirate "why is the rum always gone?"

Well, it's not rum per se, more like any old dregs left over from Christmas. The only bloody drink left in the cupboard is brandy. Nobody ever sodding asks for it, so not sure why I buy it. Then again, I have to have visitors to actually ask for a drink... This could spiral quite badly, and I'm not ready to chat through that particular damp and dark rabbit hole, so, lets move on...

Long story short, I 'celebrated' putting away the Christmas decs with the end of the bottle of Bailey's topped up with a bit of brandy, and season 14 of RuPaul's Drag Race.

Needs must, but not recommended (the drink, not Drag Race. I whole heartedly get behind that show. It's a god damn gift to humanity! Love you Mama Ru!!).

The street is now drab and rain sodden. I loath this time of year. All the twinkly lights on the big houses down the street (which I can see through my patio doors - and the ones that can afford the leccy bill for said lights), have now gone. My street has now turned into a pitch black void of misery over-night. Of course, this happens every year when the Christmas decs are taken down. I vote that the nation take them away gradually, like a slow Christmas detox to prevent tinsel withdrawal. 

Open to other suggestions that would prevent the insta-misery.

Anyway, we're shaking it off, and lets crack on with this year.

Tomorrow I resume my search for eggs.

Remember to:

Find a book on hamsters for the teen's birthday. 

A brave and broken new world

There are no eggs.

None in the local shop, none in Morrisons and none in Asda.

"There just aren't any," the member of staff in Asda says, looking at me like I'd just landed on Earth, and spoken as if I should have known that there aren't any eggs, haven't been any eggs for some time, and weren't likely to be any eggs ever again. 

It brought about a sense of bewilderment. Where are all the eggs?

I went away without them. 

That was after I found out that there was also no sweet potatoes or watermelons, both of which I could go without... but... eggs...

At least toilet roll is abundant these days. Eat your heart out 2020. In fact, there was so much toilet roll that it now takes up two aisles worth of space, and some was on special. Probably making up for the lack of eggs.

On the way out, the Asda petrol pump was displaying a sign that said "technical fault" on the card reader. It was one of those pay-at-the-pump style pumps, but then so were all the other pumps on the forecourt. Most of which were all proclaiming a technical fault.

The world doesn't feel right today. Like I'd skipped a few years and this was the new status quo - a brave new world with broken petrol pumps, and, no eggs...

Went home. 

Had fish fingers and mash. 

Watched 'Keeping Up appearances' on the iPlayer. 

Drank Baileys with one cube of ice. 

There are no eggs. 

Potatoes & Knitting

I think I smell of mashed potatoes...

Or at least my jumper does. Not entirely sure why. I haven't been anywhere near mashed potatoes since Christmas day.

Also on today's list of musings - is there a word for people that collect non-fiction books but don't actually read or use them? 

I think I'm becoming one such person. The actual purchasing of a book, for me, especially non-fiction books, has now become more about the marginal intention of doing something that's related to the contents of the book rather than the actual reading. I think I like the idea of becoming or mastering whatever the topic is, but completely ignore the fact that I have to actually learn and practice the new craft, almost as if buying the book will somehow magically install the new knowledge and skill directly into my brain like a computer program. Despite the logic of this, I am now the owner of a book entitled:

"You will be able to knit by the end of this book". 

This is concerning for a few reasons:
Firstly, I don't think I have the financial resources to continue to purchase the rather important yarn to begin such a hobby, should I actually set about it. 
Secondly, when would I actually do said knitting? It's not like I am free of time-consuming vocation and parental responsibilities.  
Lastly, why do I feel the need to knit? Is this just something that comes to people over forty, like the compulsion to collect cats (I have three of these by the way)? 

Remember to:

Put brick on top of paper bin to stop last two weeks worth of copies of the Guardian, parish magazine and random cardboard sleeves from microwave meals being blown into next doors garden. 

Dachshund Wednesday

I have a theory. Everyone that makes it to January wishes each other 'Happy New Year' because they know that January and the few months that follow will inevitably be shit. Suppose it's really a commiseration, or maybe it's a bit of a sea shanty to get us through the worrying, depressive, penniless, water-mangled months that England endures at the beginning of the year. January to April is the pipe flush of the system before the good beer starts to fill the lines. 

To celebrate my new year, today I defrosted the leftover cauliflower cheese from Christmas dinner and ate it with a jacket potato. Let's face it, in this political climate, one can't afford to turn one's back on leftovers...or potatoes.

In contrast to my own celebrations, Bob down the street bought a new Tesla which started a war with Paul next door. I know this because Paul stopped to tell me on his way past my house on his morning jog (dear God, the Lycra. The Lycra! *cringes*) while I was moving some old leaves off the grate. To quote Lycra Paul, "Bob shouldn't have been trailing the cable over the path! Someone could go arse over tit on it!" 

Regardless of it being none of my business at all, especially as the folk at the bottom of the street don't often socialise with us at the top (we have small houses, you see,,,), over the last year I have become one of those people that everyone tells things to. They rant at me about other folk and then leave. I think they've picked me as their sounding board because I just nod and say nothing when they speak, largely because there is very little to say. If I said what I felt, at the very least it would be "don't talk to me" or "piss off, Paul", but for some reason I say nothing and endure their exhausting, putrid drivel. 

In other news, Sue's pet dachshund escaped from under their gate this morning and proceeded to take a steaming dump on my driveway. I put it in a box and left it outside her door. The turd, not the dog. 

Remember to:

Get milk and bread.