I can hear the wean in the room next door, she’s practicing her Spanish with Dora. She would watch telly all day long if I let her. And eat grapes and snacks for every meal if I let her.
I’ve been back in Glasgow for 2 weeks now. A typical sojourn. I’ve already eaten my 4 months’ worth of hummous. Mad addicted. So far I have seen a few pals, hunnersa family, been jumping off trees on a hen do in the lake district and spent the morning in a pretend circus in a primary school. I’ve also had a wee bit of irn bru but no haggis or fish suppers yet. Gads man, pure would LOVE a fish supper n bottla bru for dinner tonight. Mmmmm cliches.
Obviously this page is pretty much redundant. I haven’t touched in so long due to lack of access to a normal fucking keyboard and utter laziness on my part. I could have obviously sought out an internet cafe or just brass necked it at work or whatever but I didn’t.
I tried to blog on our ipad once and that was a terrible experience. Utter typing nightmare. Too cheap to buy a luxury that is a keyboard for a non-essential item like a fucking ipad so I let the blog die out. I don’t even look like my picture anymore. But I’ll keep it anyway because I look at it and go weeeeeeeeeeeeet weeeow inside my vain little brain. Purr.
So where is the karaoke in this city? Let’s do some for I need to let out some loud vocals to some music and accompanied by cold iced alcoholic drinks in glasses of varying sizes. These things go together for me. I love them heaps like haggis and neeps. Mmmmm, stereotypes. I haven’t been home in a year and I needed to pencil in some dinner date action with a few of my oldest and boldest pals. We are not scheduled in until fucking mid May. Middle age anyone?
I know that I swear too much. No weans are reading this and for many folk, foul language is mere dialect in Glasgow. We can all switch it on and off when necessary because awareness is key to social cohesion but honestly, it’s just a completely adult and valid way of expressing oneself. And it’s massively cathartic. I was up a tree last weekend, many trees actually, in a harness and edging my way about a krypton factor-like course when I was seriously concerned for my safety. So clearly, the only way these fears escaped my person was in the form of a loud declaration of the f-word. It burst out of me. Twice. There were young children on the ground below me and when I had gathered my wits whilst hanging to a cargo net suspended many, many metres in the air, I apologised to the silent Maw. Because awareness and consideration of others is important to social cohesion. She didn’t seem too affronted, thank fuck. But aye, dialect.
Peppa Pig is on now. I should stage an intervention.
Tomorrow will be Friday, I think I need to get the wean sheared. Her fringe is emo as fuck and she looks scruffier than I do. Unacceptable! I also should deliver some souvenir noodles to a pregnant Japanese lass whom I have actually never met but am looking forward to. Aye. Tomorrow.
Maybe the next time I write something on here it will be less than the year or so hiatus that I’ve had. And I will write about more than weans and swearing n that. Cripes, there is dinner somewhere that I can smell and twasn’t I that cooked it. Must investigate.
Nae chips but. Gutted.