I feel the need to vent after a particularly appalling Monday.
I long for the day – (the 10th of Never) – when I am in possession of my own property. My prerequisites for my dream abode are plentiful – a party kitchen, no neighbours, a pet sloth – but top of the list of requirements is to NEVER have a landline. Only robots flogging PPI and people wanting money off you ring landlines. I now refuse to answer our house phone. It’s never for me anyway.
I don’t mean promiscuous adulterous females here. I refer instead to the panel show comprising of crazed middle-aged banshees, desperately imploring us to believe that they’re just “telling it like it is.” Also, it’s fronted by the awful Carol Vorderman (thinks she’s amazing, isn’t.) I live in fear of being like one of these when I grow up. Tragically, it is looking increasingly likely. *weeps*
Ever since I endured a terrifying ordeal with our Maria on the smallest Big Wheel known to man – (genuinely thought we were going to die) (we were aged about 16 and 17, respectively, at the time) – I have been petrified of all things theme park-related. I do not understand the appeal. Why scare yourself to the point of nausea in the name of fun? I think the last time I went to one was Camelot, in Year 6, and I did a lot of coat-holding.
…when the “baby” in question is in their early twenties. Just NO.