In which very little is achieved.

Well, that Harridan is a wily minx, as hopped-up on the Twitter as she is, and now I'm up to my eyeballs too, twatting away - or whatever you call it - ten to the dozen. 'When is there time to do anything else?' I ask myself. Then I have a little nap.

Today the lovely man had an appointment to see a specialist, which we thought meant that a thing, like a sort of procedure, might take place, but hallelujah and hurrah, it was yet another consultation. You wouldn't want anything therapeutic to take place at a breakneck speed, providing all the relief and wellness and getting-it-all-over-with which one might desire. "I didn't get where I am today by providing timely relief from minor but uncomfortable conditions which I am suitably qualified to treat," the consultant might say in a CJ-like manner.



So that was a bit of a shame, but now we have all the looking forward to it to do for the next indeterminate period of time (ie now until kingdom come aka who knows), which is nice.

I used the remainder of the day* to tidy the house, run errands and generally try to prevent my head from exploding due to the heat, humidity and stupidity of others. First I nipped into Chiswick to get the dry cleaning. 'Nipping' is an English thing, I think? Like 'popping.' In this case I 'nipped' into Chiswick in dense traffic moving at glacial speed, slower than if I had ridden a burro, running the gauntlet of various be-motored psychopaths in thousand-degree heat. Then I 'popped' back again to collect the mothercracking credit card I had left there, tossing pound coins about me like rose petals, buying various odd denominations of parking time (80p for 30 minutes/£1.80 per hour, minimum 90p/blood from the crown of my firstborn) all over west London.

There was a problem with the cleaners' card reader, so they had taken the card reader from me and managed to coax some action from it, but they forgot to hand me back my card. Instead, they wrapped my loyalty card in receipts, which, if anyone from The Real Hustle is reading, is an adequate disguise. By the time they rang me, I was in Brook Green to pick up some expensive and pretentious Ye Olde Heritage Paint at the fancy fixtures and fittings shop. The Shoppe was out of stock, so after attempting to buy food at the world's lamest Tesco, and realising I had no cash to buy a chicken from the butcher, I took my dwindling fistsful of change back to the cleaner, collected my card and came home, three hours after I had left. I've been reclining on the chaise with the vapours ever since.

And my best news is that I may have an eBay stalker, whose aggressive attempts to make me sell stuff to her for arbitrary small amounts of money are beginning to disturb. You know how they have that "make an offer" option? She has taken that ball and run with it. My auction had no such option, but she made me an offer, then berated me for not accepting it and argued that she could buy my item in the sales (for more money) and anyway "we should end this correspondence** because we both know I'm not going to pay you what you want for your item." Forgive my paraphrasing, but I instantly deleted her scary emails and blocked her because she scared me. Yes, she even scared me through the computer.


We may not have chicken, but we have beer.




*I now am thinking continually in CJisms, as in "I didn't get where I am today by not using the remainder of the day." I accept that that may only be funny in my head.

**Uh, yes? Please?