Ooo, I'm so cross. Proper, hormone fuelled, tantrum style cross. Happily I have learnt not to stamp my feet or kick things when this cross as inevitably inanimate objects defeat me. Like the Thai fighting stick I got walloped with at the weekend. Wielded by a trollied off duty copper, who, to his credit, did sober up remarkably quickly when he realised he'd smacked a 4'8 woman with a weapon. Anyway, that's not why I'm cross. It gets worse...
The puking is back, coinciding perfectly with my period and so confirming the hormone spike floppy tummy theory. Unfortunately it also coincided perfectly with a much planned visit from TLI. Our planning clearly wasn't up to standard as TLI was paged only a few hours after arriving and had to drive more hundreds of miles in the night to get to a patient I'd explained had better damn well be about to die otherwise I'd be ensuring they were. The only silver lining to this cloud I managed to find is that it meant TLI was not there the following morning to witness my vomiting half way down the stairs. Into a yoghurt pot. There is a reason sick bowls are shaped like...sick bowls and not yoghurt pots which are sadly not up to the job. I plan to send a report to James Purnell on the subject of being unfit for purpose. I don't expect him to spot the similarities. After all, yoghurt pots are vastly more evolved than he. They know what they're good for and being puked in ain't it. That is a job we should reserve for politicians. It's about time they did something worthwhile, and think of the money the NHS would save.
Anyway, the puking is not why I'm cross. Oh noes. I was initially cross when rudely awoken this morning by the sound of drilling from my neighbours. I'd been aiming to sleep through the worst bit of morning sickness** but instead found myself throwing up again. I managed to avoid the stair carpet this time..and the cat, though that was a close miss. You'd think she'd learn...
Various projectiled body fluids later I was cheered by a phone call from Roland. For a couple of seconds until I was plunged back into fury as he called to moan about his girlfriend again. She needs a name so Porn Star it is. I've seen parts of that woman's anatomy I didn't know existed on myself, but that's not anger inducing, just too much information. The saga of Porn Star has been going on for months now, and along with Roland's other friends I've moved from sympathy and support to downright brutal bluntness. I should think it's quite difficult to inspire all your boyfriend's friends to call you a selfish bitch but Porn Star achieves that with ease. Still, we all need a talent. And hers is admittedly alot better than vomiting into yoghurt pots.
Roland made me promise not to publicly humiliate Porn Star for her latest antics as that was my preferred course of action. Still, I think calling her Porn Star is more anonymity than she deserves. Porn Star has a general disregard for pretty much anything that isn't herself. I assume that is the reason she gets strings of fines for speeding, illegal parking, erratic driving type incidents. Impressive for the girlfriend of a traffic policeman. She's sunk to new lows this time though. Porn Star was given a ticket for parking in a disabled bay without having a valid blue badge. Objecting to the £60 fine Porn Star bitched and moaned until Roland gave in and wrote a letter of appeal that he claims he hoped was bad enough for the company to put straight into the 'bullshit bin' but enough to satisfy Porn Star he was 'sortin' it'***.
Now, companies who manage privately owned car parks have been held up in the media enough times for refusing to back down when they've fined genuine blue badge holders for failing to display their badge properly, so I was quite pleased to hear of this companies response to the letter. They would write off the fine, but wanted a photocopy of the blue badge Porn Star claimed belonged to the friend she was taking shopping and forgot to display to show it was a genuine mistake. Which is where I got dragged in....
Yes, Porn Star had requested Roland acquire a photocopy of a genuine blue badge. Mine. I suggested I'd be more than happy to tell Porn Star to get fucked myself if Roland did not wish to do so, and that I was disgusted that Roland himself has stooped so low. Porn Star I expect this from. Roland I expect better. Still, the man is besotted and falls for everything Porn Star says hook, line and sinker. We've all been there before, and considering any of the many, many ridiculous things I have done in my time to please some bloke I was convinced to be the source of the sun, I don't feel too inclined to kick Roland for the same thing. Well, not tooooo much anyway.
After all that the bloody hammering wasn't my neighbour at all, it was the for sale sign going up. They've not even been to measure up yet! Then, to finish my temper beautifully I dislocated my knee asking it to commit the unreasonable activity of holding me upright. I'm going back to bed!
*no dead patients
**Ah the irony of morning sickness without the pregnancy.
***I know, I know. Roland is a mug