Sunday, 11 July 2010

Dear Diary...

Sunday, 11 July 2010.
Weather: Oppressively hot. Am sweating like an infidel.
Mood: Shy/wild.
Song of the day: Happy Birthday – dedicated to my dearest darling Dombo who is aging as fabulously as a good bottle of wine. Gorgeous simile, methinketh.
News facts of the day: The family of infamous, self-defunct gunman Raoul thingymejig are up in arms about the fact that he shot himself, claiming that he is not a nutter. I am not sure I believe them. Tis also the day of the World Cup Final in South Africa. Spain v Holland. Come on Spain, etc. Not that I really care. Am a bit sported out to be truthful. I just want the telly to go back to normal. And James Corden to get the fuck out of my face.

The future has been revealed to me – and it’s Cilit Bang. Truly, it is. I’m not normally the sort of person that falls for advertising shtick, but my shower door was getting beyond a joke. Despite priding self on obsessive, OCD-levels of clean and possessing the nose of a well behaved, flea-free bloodhound with an arse that won’t quit, the waxy limey water stains on the door were infuriating me. (Note to self: must get a life at some point. Possibly tomorrow.) I tried all sorts, from normal old cleaners (Mr Muscle, if you're reading this, you're useless and can shit off) liberally rubbed in with a large dollop of elbow grease, neat bleach and Kim and Aggie’s long term fave, vinegar. Not the recommended white vinegar, though. I can’t seem to locate it in the supermarkets. Nope, I just used Sarsons, fresh from the cupboard. It didn’t work. It just made the bathroom smell like a rank old bag of chips. Meanwhile, the water stains continued to mock me as I bathed. Pah!

Anyway, you’ll be fascinated to know that today was the day where I thought enough was enough. Enter Cillit Bang. Being the recessionista that I am, I’m usually averse to paying £4 for a bottle of cleaning liquid, but you can’t take your pennies with you when you slip off the dish and these water stains were pushing me further to a stress induced death by the day. Yes I am that sad. Speaking of which, I have decided to embrace my flaws (namely: obsessive cleanliness, moderate chubbarama, snoring, irritability when tired, a love of musicals, refusing to hear a bad word said against Lord Madge, text-message response apathy) rather than continue the exhausting fight to be a better person. Sod that for a game of soldiers. This is as good as it gets, folks. Am probably off to Hell once I check out of Hotel Life’s presidential suite, so what’s the point?

Where was I? Oh yes; to cut a short, rather dull story a little shorter, I Cillit Banged my shower door big style and it’s come up a bloody treat. People in my family swear by certain commodities as cure all evil products. Eg. My Mam would slap Nivea on anything untoward (spots, broken arms, third degree burns, aching joints, military dictators, people who vote Tory) and my sister does the same with Sudocrem. I think I will liberally apply Cillit Bang to any problematic areas of my life. Seriously, it’s a marvel.

*breathes*

In other breaking news, I was passionately ravished all night long... By mosquitos, sadly. Mr Blokey remains bite-free, despite being truly scrumptious and much tastier than I. But no, the low-rent mozzies decided to dine out on me instead. I look like a well worn dot-to-dot worksheet. Malaria, anyone? No fear, I will simply treat my bites will Cillit Bang.

Hurrah.

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