Couldn’t Hit a Cow’s Arse with a Banjo

HFF wifey has been busy; neglectful of bloggy chums (for which I abjectly apologise; I have still been reading) and a victim of faceless cyberspace malevolence. I am not glamourous enough for it to be the flamey-trollish kind of random malice – only the very best bloggers attract that sort of spineless venom – my emails simply quietly decided to stop appearing in my inbox, having got themselves thoroughly bunged up out in cyberspace. I have 3 email addresses and it took me some weeks to notice that I wasn’t recieving things that I should be. It took me even longer to get myself together sufficiently to report the problem to tiscali, no time at all for them to email back from India (incomprehensibly), another week for me to force myself to actually decipher their meaning and fire back another email, a further 2 hours for them to send their automated

Thank you for contacting Tiscali UK Ltd.In an effort to improve the speed and accuracy of our email customer support we ask that all support contact requests now go through our online support area.Please click the following link access our online support Online Help

email requesting me to contact them via the route I was already using – and about another hour after that for me to realise that the only person who was ever likely to sort this out was myself.

Our main email address is fine. The email I recently set up as Harry’s name (my own was already bagsied) is fine. which (by what I’m sure is complete co-incidence. Almost) was set up by Hubby – was not fine. The emails that I had shouted at Stratford college that very morning for repeatedly not sending were (ahem!) all there – and I blush to think of what Shannon & Alistair must have thought of me, as there were 4 or 5 emails in among the 55 (not a spam among them! they were all ones I wanted!) I discovered, asking, in increasingly shy terms, whether I wanted to, you know, come to a party?!

So: Utter Mortification has featured highly on my emotional agenda this week. So has Frustrated Crossness, as all three of us are still horribly diarrhoea-stricken. I have also had more than a soupcon of Envious Angst, as a friend (a nice and lovely friend, too) has announced this week that she is entering her second trimester. Absurdly, all the ‘left behind on the breeding! WAH!’ feelings that should have been banished forever by Harry’s birth have snuck in round the back when I wasn’t watching and bit me hard on the bum. I harbour no seething rages towards the lucky expectee, mind you – in distinct contrast to my usual reaction, prior to Harry – but I am officially Jealous as Fuck, can’t stop telling myself that she’ll have a bump and I won’t, and experienced significantly less hand-wringing and pointless vacillation than usual when my LH surged Sunday night.

Jealousy is not the only thing to bite me on the bum lately: I was delivering some flyers around my local village Sunday last, when an elderly canine denizen took a marked dislike to my face, even greater exception to my (calmly) departing rear, and launched itself snarling at my arse. How it missed the target is completely beyond me – major cataract affliction is the only explanation I can proffer – but it did, and my favourite shirt was the sole item left perforated. 

dog damage

The owner – alerted by my issuing a loud bollocking on the topic of The Error Of Your Ways to his dog – was fairly apologetic and embarrassed – although I note he never actually left his doorstep – and I mentally had him pegged as someone who would respond to my flyer out of sheer guilt and desire to make reparations, and turn up on the designated morning in order to spend some money. 

I constantly misjudge the human race!

I was intending to explain why I was in happy expectation of an opportunity to see an open wallet, but there are wails from upstairs and I feel Naptime – that brief daily oasis – is Over. Tomorrow!

%d bloggers like this: