Well, just so you all know, Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday this week herald 12½ hour days for me. As a result, my posts on here will either be about my new-found abilities to smell colour and see time, or will simply lament how tired I am.
Thankfully, I’ve at least managed to write all the Christmas cards for foreign family members, and find the missing piece to my Mum’s present. This means that when I’m finally finished what I’m knitting at the moment – and this would go a whole lot faster if people didn’t have such gigantic heads – I will be able to post off all my presents. I’m hoping to be done by Thursday, but we’ll see. After that, there are just a few more bits and bobs I need to have done by the time Christmas 2 rolls around in January and I will have succeeded in only buying 3 gifts which weren’t hand-made or second-hand. I will definitely strive to do this again next year, but will begin my crafty slog in July, rather than October.
Actually, on the subject of tired, I’d like to share a pet hate of mine with you:
Overly proud pregnant women.
Last night, at my work Christmas party, I was politely eaves-dropping on the next table* when I heard a group of women complimenting their colleague on her ‘brave’ choice of dress. The lady in question was a slim thing, swaddled in a lilac lycra abomination which seemed specifically designed to replace a big neon sign pointing to her baby bump.
“Well, why shouldn’t I show off?” she said, basking in the attention of her colleagues, “I’m doing such an incredible thing right now. I mean, I created life.” The out-of-bounds martini menu sparkled at me from the corner of my eye as I tried to resist bashing my head off the table. A stiff drink would have been very well-appreciated at that moment in time.
In my head, I walked over to her table, right eye twitching slightly, and slammed my fist down by her vegan dinner option. “Oi!” said Imaginary-Frankie, in a very bold sort of way, “You’re not special. My table? We’ve got 5 pregnant nurses, who not five minutes ago stopped a woman from choking on the other side of the restaurant. That’s 5 other people who managed to open their legs, get knocked up and create life. And you know what, you daft cow? There are thousands of other women all over the world doing exactly what you are in war zones, famine-struck regions and in families who make the bloody Mansons look normal. You, my moronic vegan friend, are not special. In fact, you’re about as stupid as they come – starving your unborn child of readily available nutrients because you’re a fussy eater. You care about animal welfare? Buy from reputable farms, don’t malnourish yourself.”
With that, Imaginary-Frankie sat back down and enjoyed one of the many glasses of strong spirits which other admiring patrons had bought for her. Real-Frankie could only look on, jealously, as yet again her imagination stole the show and her car keys prevented her from sloshing back the entire cocktail list.
Sometimes, I wish I was as brave as my subconscious would have me be. Maybe then, all these people I rant about might start being humiliated by me in public, forcing others around them to think before opening their mouths and thus making the world a less moronic place…
…But I’m tired. And the babble I just communicated makes less sense to read through now than it did when I thought it last night. However as my brain has now morphed into a soggy, sploppy mush, the above drivel is the only subject matter I have to share. In future, I think I’ll follow my own advice and think before I put fingers to keyboard… perhaps that’s how I can actively make the world a less moronic place.
* Overhearing other people’s conversations was slightly less tedious than torturing myself with the drinks selection. You see, I’m a lover of real tequila – the rich, golden kind, not that crappy stuff which you knock back like cheap vodka – so naturally, on finding a place with an astonishing tequila collection, I also found myself a designated driver.