Pupkin
Now Playing: The King of Comedy
I really need to go to bed but I can't warm this house up. The heating has been on full strength for five hours, I shut all windows, curtains, doors - and my feet are still freezing. Bitter experience teaches you there's no sleep for someone with cold toes.
I'm going to watch the King of Comedy. I'm going to wonder if it's possible to blog like Rupert Pupkin speaks. I'm going to put more and more wintry layers on. I'm going to wait doggedly for warmth to occur.
Why the hell won't the place warm up? There are holes in the attic/roof, true, but I pulled the creaking attic door shut, and it's heavy. We haven't shut, let alone locked the front door for five or six months now, till tonight. That should have heated things, up, surely? And the constant bloody kettle boiling (for a parentally influenced heavy tea habit) should have heated the air a little.
The end of my nose is cold, and I can't feel my heels any longer. Wonder if I have a bobble hat somewhere. Or gloves? My sister's mate got her and her bf a hands holding glove for a present. It's like a muff, but for two separate people's hands. I think pockets are more romantic, personally, but it has that certain care in the community touch that hugging someone lacks.
Now I'm bloody sniffling, and my cats have hunkered down on top of each other for body warmth, then jammed themselves down the crack in the sofa cushions. Perhaps when I hoovered, I removed a crucial layer of insulation from the flat's internal casing?
Last night I dreamt that Elsie of Coopblog and Maccers were having an affair and each blogging their side of a break up. Perhaps it's better to have cold toes than mad blog-related dreams like that. Jebus, my mind is wandering, like someone delirious after being caught up in an avalanche.
Okay, panic stations, I'm going to sit inside a sleeping bag till I feel warm. An upside down sleeping bag, with the toe section unzipped so my face can poke out.
I need a nose warmer. If I had an airline eye-shade I could use that to cover my nose. Hey, I have some old slippers in the shape of fluffy bunnies! That's the toes sorted. If only I had leg warmers. Christ, there's a phrase I never thought to utter again, eh?
Damn my eyes for running out of hot chocolate and not replacing the jar. Tea just isn't as good as cocoa at warming you up. Cooking something might help (my kitchen opens onto my living area), but I ran down all the food supplies before I left, so it would be easier to not stuff my face like a porker when I returned. There's some stale bread and two very very old slices of prosciutto. I don't think you can bake those.
Why doesn't my newly acquired layer of subcutaneous mince-pie related fat help protect me from this cold? Now I'm feeling the chill in my shoulder muscles. And I have teeny tiny shoulder muscles - I'd have to be dying of hypothermia to feel cold in something so small.
I could give up entirely on this room and try hiding beneath the water level in a hot bath. Except the boiler is dicy lately, and I'd have to turn the heating off for thirty minutes before i could get any hot water. The drizzling snot beginning to drip out of my damp cold nose would icicle over ages before that.
Whyyyyyyyy did no-one get me fluffy insulated knickers for Christmas? Those purple net frilly efforts from DKNY look pathetic in the face of the below zero temperature onslaught now. It can't be going to snow - it never ever snows at Christmas in South England, let alone in London, the warmest bit of the UK. We have hail or grey sleet at best. Not snow. And anyway, the temperature ups a bit when it's snowed. This is ice temperature. I was going to drive in to work tomorrow and do some extra unpaid stuff to be readier for Monday. But the heating will be off till Monday afternoon - doesn't sound exactly inviting.
They say that just before you die (of hypothermia, natch), your life flashes before your eyes. One particular snug woolly item is flashing balefully at me this chilly minute.
One of the things that precipitated my split with Wickedex (apart from, like, her telling me she'd split up with me, of course) was The Gift she brought me back from her eight weeks in Australia. She said they were trendy. She said everybody out there wears them. In response to my raised eyebrows of utter disdain, she said only young twenty something types wear them.
That my granny horror was unfounded. Here they are: Ugg boots.
Sexy, huh? There's the sort of present you want your object of desire to associate with you in dark and lonely foreign climes.
I showed just the pic to my mum and she nearly peed herself laughing. That was one of those Horrified Moments that you remember forever. I looked at what she'd bought me, and knew that anyone - ANYONE - who could buy me such a present was never going to have sex with me again.
Just my sodding luck that six months later Kate Moss is wearing them. Well I bet Jefferson Hack begs her to burn them nightly. They'll not have a second child till she's burnt the damn things. Hell, now he's seen her in them, even Kate Moss will have been uglified by them. No Sex Ever Again for Kate. Till the granny slippers are gone. Jeez, can I ramble on any more? My brain is icing over.
Bloody hell, though, those slippers look warm now. Brrrrrr!
This page graced by sarsparilla
at 1:43 AM GMT
Updated: Tuesday, 30 December 2003 2:01 AM GMT
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Updated: Tuesday, 30 December 2003 2:01 AM GMT
Post Comment | View Comments (32) | Permalink | Share This Post
