Yep, first time in London village visiting a bint and I was warned not to interact with strangers on the tube as it was generally thought an odd behaviour. Hadn't been told it caused anxiety and panic attacks in Cocknee geezer's.
First thing one of our pups, who is a picky eater, decided to scoff one of our big dog's meds that had dropped to the floor. That caused all sorts of panic with Doris thinking the little twat had poisoned himself. A phone call to the local veterinary hospital calmed the situation down somewhat and we just have to keep an eye on him in case he starts vomiting etc............a visit to the hospital would have been £300 for starters apparently. Anyway, so far so good and the little bastard is jumping around as if he's taken a wrap of whizz!! Following that little escapade I had a dental appointment booked with both the Hygienist and the Dentist for a check up/clean up this morning. However the dentist couldn't see me today for some inexplicable reason so I have to go there again tomorrow for the check up. This afternoon my builders maintenance decorator is due to come and repaint a door frame and skirting board to the stairs after some remedial work carried out under warranty on Monday.
I've bought two lots of socks recently. I've got so many now my drawer could burst (in the Tudor cottage with no washing machine I bought enough pants, socks and t-shirts to have a clean set every day for at least a month). I've been retiring pants as elastic starts to show or colour fades - you know, in case I die in the street. I've been slightly more forgiving with socks and t-shirts. T-shirts I retire when I can't close the drawer anymore. The discarded pants and t-shirts become pyjamas. But socks. Bugger. You know, ideally I'd like a scientifically derived formula for how big the hole in a sock is acceptable before they go in the polishing rag bag. And psychiatric advice on whether to keep the one that isn't holed as a spare if having more than one pair that colour. Shit.
I like the idea of having clean underwear on in case you should die in the street But it leaves me wondering and a little concerned if you are indeed secure in your neighbourhood, and if god forbid it to happen, you should die in the street you would be fleeced of all your belongings and stripped naked. I’m in Oxford now and it’s fucking mental here.
Not wishing to be morbid but when you die, odds on your bowel will empty so no-one will know if your pants were clean or not. Andy
When I've previously been in Oxford I've wanted to be somewhere else. I heard it's improved. Whereas Woodstock used to be wonderful but now they're building (probably built by now) enough new houses to dwarf the old village, though without sufficient amenities. Though even that would be a crime. Last time I went through I hardly knew where I was.
Hehehe - nothing to do with dying in the street for me because with a couple of pairs of pants it got to the stage where even I was thinking c'mon man it looks like no-one cares. And if when wiggling me toes I'm scratching the end of me boot then I'm thinking I need to cut me nails plus the socks need replacing. I have to say I do always find it little strange browsing for such items, especially in 'Tu' at Sainsburys as it was in this case, and equalling disconcerting looking at the model on the pants packaging and wondering if my physique would be so transformed when wearing them.
My heated gilet gave up the ghost the other day so I was enormously pleased to find a spare one earlier. I also received a small torch through the post which is (a) extremely powerful, (b) has a strobe function. Naturally, being an 11 year old boy trapped in a middle aged man’s body, I had to strobe myself to see whether it would have my effect on me and I’m sorry to say that it has made me feel a bit sick and I can sense the beginnings of a migraine so I’ve had to take a sumatriptan tablet in order to head (no pun intended) it off at the pass.
For me boxers go in the bin once the arse has completely rotted out of them and socks when they have basically become a tube! Yes I dress like a tramp.
I saw a photo of me from about 40 years ago, laying on a mattress, you can hardly see denim through the oil on my jeans, and there's another pair if anything oilier hanging from the wardrobe door. I think I began to get defensive about being filthy. Or possibly got interested in chicks who weren't biker sluts.
