Fluffy Little Miscreant

My cat is a cockblocker.

There’s no two ways about it. That fluffy little miscreant wants to keep any twig and giggleberries from getting near my lady parts. I’m not sure if he thinks by allowing a man into my den of zum zum that he will be usurped in my affection. Maybe he thinks the weirdos I attract online will be the type to steal his catfood and get off their tits on his catnip. Whatever it is, it’s a pain in the proverbial.

I once had a gentleman caller at the flat (sidebar: does that make me sound like a big old whorey whore? He came for dinner and some light fondling) who I was doing my best to impress. It was going well, we were flirting, we were doing some kissing, it was all going great guns. Until he decided he wanted to meet Hobo.

Off he went a-wandering round the flat whilst I finished cooking dinner (took the pizza out of the oven and threw some salad at it). He came back moment later with a slight horror look on his face and said I should probably go into my bedroom.

Shit.

No literally, shit. All over my bedcovers.

Talk about a boner killer.

Then on Tuesday night it was time to take him to see Hot Scott the vet. He of the twinkly eyes and knicker melting voice. The first time they met Hobo was totally enamoured (as was I) and literally turned to putty in his hands (as would I) and yet now, Hobes has obviously realised he is the man with the syringe and the funny tasting stuff that goes on his food (easy tiger!).

After scratching the living shit out of my arm I managed to wrestle him into his carrier and get him in the car. I spoke lovingly to him all journey whilst he gave me the MOST pissed off face and stayed just out of reassuring stroking reach.

Got there, wrestled him out of his carrier and had a demi flirt with Hot Scott. So far so good. Fluttering eyelashes and a bit more flirting meant I was really enjoying myself. Hobo? Not so much.

As I was ramping up to using my best lines whilst soothing Hobo and coming across as a wonderful human being I heard a gasp and looked up to see Hot Scott waving his hand having clearly been bitten by my feral beast. Then, to add insult to literal injury he squatted on his haunches… and pissed all over Hot Scott’s other hand.

Such romance.

F.i.n.e

Fucked up. Insecure. Neurotic. Emotional. 

According to some enlightened folk that’s what ‘fine’ really means. If you answer ‘fine’ you’re really saying that you’re a massive crapbag full of mess who is trying to keep a lid on things. 

Fanny. Igloo. Nigella. Effervescent. 

They’re just words aren’t they, but we read so much into it. 


In my case, fine can mean a plethora of things: 

“I’m so hungover I might die but can’t let you know that.”

“If you say one more thing to me I’m going to rip your head off and spit down your neck.”

“WHYYYYY HASN’T HE TEXT ME?! Did I say something daft? Did I have spinach in my teeth? I’m way too pre-occupied to answer you so I’ll just say fine.” 

“I’m not fine but I don’t know how I’m feeling so for the purpose of this conversation I’m fine.” 

And sometimes it means just that, that I’ve checked myself out and everything is… well… fine. 


I’ve been trying to get in touch with my emotions recently (yes, that makes me sound like an absolute wanker) so I ponied up the dinero for a Mood Calendar for my desk at work. 

It’s just a shame it doesn’t have homicidal or desperately in need of gin as choices. 



Yep, Those Are My Boobs

Hidely-Ho Neighbourino!

Yes I am in my bra and pants wandering round my flat at half past four in the afternoon and yes you have just clocked me doing so but you know what, I’m not even sorry. I mean it would have been a bit better had my underwear been matching (sorry Oj) but I won’t lie – the minute I’m through my front door the clothes come off.

Partially it’s because my flat has the tendency to be hotter than the surface of the sun but also it’s comfortable and I’m the Queen of my castle. I don’t care who you are or how much you earn, errrrrrrbody has secret single behaviour they get up to when they think no-one is watching. Even if people can actually see you such as when you’re pretending to be a pop superstar in the car, Ally.

I do a mean Iggy Azalea, all Judy Attitudey head bobbing duck face, but I can also crack out a passable Adele with a well timed air grab and my Regulators can mount up with the best of them. When stuck in traffic I like to come up with backstories for the people around me too, particularly if they’re driving like an arse or have a personalised numberplate (*ahem* like I also have) that spells something daft.

I talk to myself a lot, normally bargaining with myself to get my arse out of bed but I also talk to Hobo a lot too. Going as far as asking him how his day has been (and, err, interpreting his miaows as answers) and giving him a running commentary on my evening.

OH MY GOD I’M LITERALLY A CRAZY CAT LADY.

The only time I’ve used my NutriBullet was to crush ice to pad out a frozen cocktail and I once had to shove my washing up into the oven when the object of my affection turned up unexpectedly. I experiment with ‘out there’ makeup to try and hone my techniques – the only time I’ve been busted doing this was of course when for shits and giggles I’d given myself a full Helga from Hey Arnold eyebrow, bronzed to all fuck, and slapped on enough neon pink lipstick to blind from fifty paces.

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In walked my housemate’s gorgeous friend, the man who looked like Dermot Mulroney and was a total knicker melter. ACES.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You Won’t Like Me When I’m Angry… 

I like to think I’m a pretty chilled out person but banshee week rolls around and suddenly my skin takes on a green sheen and I start hulking out of my clothes. You can tell the more cross I am with you by the amount of times I smile and say ‘no problem’ when actually I’m thinking that you’re getting yourself a temporary place on my shit list.

Some of the things that get on my wick or have been there recently include:

  • People moaning that they’re hot, BUT STILL HAVING ALL THEIR HAIR DOWN. Maybe it’s just me but as soon as the mercury rises the very first thing I do is scrape my hair up as much as is humanly possible.
  • Men driving BMWs who refuse to merge in turn and instead keep barging their way through until you have no choice but to acquiesce or lose the front of your car. Wankers.
  • Dust jackets on books. I take care of my books, I’m not a page folder or a spine bender but I always remove the dust jacket before reading. Then I mostly end up losing them and getting more annoyed.
  • This one is totally irrational but he sent me a message, ‘Sorry I haven’t messaged. Hope you didn’t think I was ignoring you”. A polite message that deserved a friendly response, but the hormone gremlins inside my head were shouting ‘Just fuck off! I haven’t been sat round waiting for your text, don’t be so arrogant.’ Thankfully I managed to leave that as my inner monologue and not my outer moanologue.
  • The entire iPhone photos schtick. I can’t be the only one who gets annoyed that you can’t make albums and move photos on your phone without having to plug it in and do battles with what seems like the most convoluted system on the planet.
  • Women who refer to their partner as ‘the boy’, which seems to be the reserve of the basics on Instagram which makes it not too hard to imagine them calling him ‘Daddy’ in private which is creepy and weird.
  • Poking people on Facebook – seriously, didn’t this die out with the ark?! Hello random man, electronically prodding me is not going to make me want to look at your twig and giggleberries so pack it in.

Am I alone here? Am I the only one who has inconsequential gripes which make them want to hulk smash things?

 

 

Hello From The Other Side…

The other side where you think just saying “hello” and having one badly taken photo and a half-assed profile will make me want to engage with you. 

What it does is make me want to gouge my eyes out with a spoon. There’s enough written on my profile for you to comment on, to at least try and engage me in conversation and the plain “hello” is just a sign of carpet bombing the ladies in your matches. 

My Stepmum says I’m to keep casting my bread onto the water as you never know when a fish will want a nibble. That’s all you’re doing, hoping by sending enough messages you’ll find a fish to nibble your bait. *pause* 

A friend of mine likes to tell me I’m fussy but I just can’t be arsed to try and strike up chat when the patter is becoming all so familiar. 

Him: Hi 

Me (at least trying): Hi, how are you? Having a good week? 

Him: Alright. What are you looking for on here?

I know what he’s doing, he’s trying to suss out if I’m a “one and done night of fun”, a normal woman looking for an actual adult relationship, or a stage five clinger who will murder his pet rabbit. 

Me: It would be nice to find someone to date, someone who isn’t into playing games. 

Him: I’m not into playing games, well unless it’s in the bedroom. Do you like playing games in the bedroom? 

And there we have it. From shit chat to sex talk in three simple messages. 

Surely it’s not too much to ask to find someone with a bit of something about them? And I don’t mean gonorrhoea. Your shit chat is not big, not clever, and definitely not subtle. You may as well tell me straight off the bat that you have a massive knob and want to bend me over the sofa whilst watching your team stonk it home against their rivals. 

I like witty repartee, a killer smile, and some interests beyond getting tanked up at the match on a Saturday and trying to have cyber sex of an evening and if that makes me a snob well then, spank me on the bottom and call me Arabella. 

Jellyfish Alert! 

Dear Bridget,

Having almost launched my Kindle across the room whilst reading ‘Mad About the Boy’- a visceral reaction to having waited 14 years for something that turned out to be as enjoyable as a noxious fart in an airlocked room, I thought we’d outgrown each other.

Your loveable relatability had started to wear thin and I very much wanted to get you by the shoulders and give you a bloody good shake whilst telling you to stop being such a monumental bellend and letting fuckwits and calamity rule your life. I really thought it was time for you to pull on your big girl panties and sort your shit out.

Then I realised that makes me a massive chuffing hypocrite because fuckwits are my oxygen and calamity follows me like a lost puppy. If there’s a man out there with a sniff of Daniel Cleaver about him then I’m all about that fuckery, even when friends wince at a mere mention. I’m a sucker for a good old flirt, some late night phone calls (I don’t mean phone sex Dad!), and the crushing sense of rejection when it goes Pete Tong and I get to update my diary:

Dear Diary, everyone was right and I was wrong. X was a shuddering knobhead who should be exiled to BAD MAN LAND where he and his magical smile and witty yet shitty chat can lure fair maidens no more”. 

Granted I’ve never made blue soup but I did once cook a pizza for a man with the polystyrene base still on it so like you, I’m hardly Nigella. 

I even have my own Magda and Jeremy, the most showhome living über hosts you ever did see who are some of the nicest, kindest, non smug marrieds around. Your Magda and Jeremy with their pasta in jars are mere pretenders to the throne. My Magda and Jeremy have slippers for guests, themed bedrooms, and a hostess trolley (that I like to call a hot pocket because I’m a CHILD). 
 

I think I misjudged you however. I think my ire at you still lurching from one calamity to the next was misplaced annoyance as at the time it felt like I was a walking disaster zone. Turns out skirt was not sick, management was. 

I picked up my dog eared copy of your original diary and immersed myself in your world, by the end of the first chapter I was a teenager again dreaming of the cosmopolitan lifestyle living in the big city and batting off men (alright, fuckwits) with a big stick before drinking with friends. 

I guess that through all the ups and downs, the Cleaver’s and the Darcy’s (but NOT the Roxter’s) what it boils down to… 

I like you very much. Just as you are. 

Love Alice – the un-wanton sex novice without a very bad man between my thighs. 

Dear Mummie (2017)

George and I weren’t even 19 when you left us, and yet here we are 19 years later. That’s 6941 days without your laugh, your smile, and your voice which was described as being like a full bodied red wine.

I was so angry with you for such a long time for leaving us. I know you cherished us and yet you went. One minute you were there and the next, the bleep of the heart monitor flatlined and you were gone.

I’d give anything to be able to pick up the phone to you, although I know you’d have been all over WhatsApp and a Queen of a subtle emoji. I’d give anything to be able to sit down and share a bottle of wine with you and just talk. I’d give anything for you to be able to see what a wonderful man George has become, he managed to leave behind the miserable teenage ball of hormones and has blossomed into a man you’d be so proud of. I’d give anything for you to be able to spend time with Sam and Ben. They are such a delight and you’d adore them. More than anything, even though I’m 35 and like to think of myself as being independent, I’d give anything to hear you trill “see you in the morning when the sunshine comes again” as we headed up to bed.

My life isn’t easy, nobody’s is, but in the main I’m happy, in the main I’m content, and I’m blessed with the fiercest loving caring friends you could wish for.

I found your makeup bag the other day. Preserved since the day you last used it, your smell captured within. I sat for a long time looking at the contents remembering those happy times in the makeup hall in Bentalls – I can blame you for having drawers crammed full of cosmetics really can’t I.

I’m not sure I believe in heaven. I like to imagine you somewhere in the ether wearing a fabulous pair of earrings, calling everyone darling, and holding court as usual. I know the older I get the more I’m turning into you (we’re almost at the stage that there’s no turning, there’s only turned) and it’s given me a greater understanding of the woman you were inside.

Always a smile, always an open door, and nothing was too much for the people you loved. Yet inside was a world of pain, a sense of turmoil and lack of inner peace. Your way of dealing was to smile, smile, smile, and deal with the pain in private. I learned this from you and it’s only now that I’m starting to realise how toxic that can be and how actually it’s okay to ask for help, and it’s okay to struggle sometimes. I just wish you could have let your friends in like I have.

You’re still spoken of so fondly – even if young Ben is convinced you were murdered in some gangland shootout (boys eh!) and I wish you could see just how many lives you touched, how many people were so glad to know you, or so sad they never got the chance.

Wherever you are I hope you’re smiling.

See you in the morning, when the sunshine comes again.

Love you, love you, mean it, mean it.

Your Ally Weasel x