Katyboo1’s Weblog

May I just say, to the person who e-mailed me about my blog this morning to say: ‘YOUR AN IDIOT’, that at least I can spell ‘you’re’.  I do feel that if you’re going to write abusive e-mails, or letters of any kind to people about their failure to live up to your expectations, the least you can do is spell properly.  I’d be the first to admit that I’m never going to win any prizes for my grammar and punctuation, but I do have a basic grasp of spelling and would faint with shame if I thought that I had written to someone listing their short comings, but without the basic ability to spell even the simplest of words correctly.

If you want to write poison pen letters for a living I think it’s important to take pride in your work.  Otherwise it could be quite demoralising.  I think it must be a fairly lonely job and with few rewards, so you must raise the bar and set yourself proper standards.  You might think about professional qualifications, possibly in calligraphy, or sticking and cutting at the very least.

I feel much the same way about graffiti.  I’m not one of those people who feel that it is an eyesore and should be banned.  Frankly, if Banksy were to come round to my house tomorrow and grace my exterior walls with one of his murals, I’d be more than happy.  I’d be chiselling it off the stucco and running to Sothebys with a wheelbarrow before the aerosol had dried.  The only time I dislike graffiti is when it’s incorrectly spelled.  I am taking the spelling of graffiti from a website about Banksy, so if you spell it grafitti, don’t blame me.  Take it up with Banksy, if you know who he is.

I hate anything that’s not spelled properly that is supposed to be for public consumption.  I don’t count my blog in this, because it’s mine! I put my interesting spelling of some words such as Hawaii, graffiti and maracca, down to rustic charm and not sheer laziness!  It doesn’t hurt to have double standards, especially when they’re in your own blog! I do count menus though.  I count them most vehemently, especially when they can’t spell ‘lasagne’.  It’s one of my pet hates.  I couldn’t trust anyone to cook a decent lasagne if they can’t even spell it.  It’s too worrying.

I’m not really sure why I’m an idiot.  I mean, I know that there are many reasons why I am an idiot.  The fact that I can wander round for an entire day with my pants on sideways and the fact that I set my own burglar alarm off with astonishing regularity are two things which spring to mind, but this person was succinct to the point of churlishness about his feelings, which made it hard to judge which of my many behaviours or opinions had offended him enough for him to feel moved to write to me.  Maybe it was everything, a sort of blanket coverage.

Still, I can’t let a small thing like an illiterate man’s judgement of my stupidity stop me now.  I’ve got things to do, pants to wear and burglar alarms to set off.  The vast expanses of my middle life beckon and I must rush towards them, so that I can tell you all about it in my blog.

I hope you’ve noticed that my blogging is getting shorter.  This is because my time is getting more precious and my stress levels are rising.  Something has got to give.  I had contemplated abandoning the blogging altogether, but feel that I would regret this later, so am cutting my cloth accordingly with the feeling that anything is better than nothing at all.  Whether you agree or not is by the by.  If you feel strongly enough about it, I’m sure you’ll send me an e-mail registering your feelings one way or another. 

I have to say though, in the last four days, that Shakespeare has fallen by the wayside and the world is still waiting with eager anticipation to find out how I am ever going to stage that bloody scene from Taming of the Shrew.  I must start again tomorrow when the kids are back at school, even if it’s only to write some illegible notes on the back of a doily (I would say beer mat, but I don’t drink any more and I don’t go to pubs any more, unless they do really good food, so there’s no point.  The tea room is where you’ll find me.) and then accidentally wash them when I forget to take the notes out of my jeans pocket.  It’s the thought that counts.

The kids didn’t come back from their dad’s house until the middle of the afternoon, which was quite novel and refreshing.  Oscar watched The Wrong Trousers this morning, which put him in an excellent mood.  It surpasses even, ‘In the Night Garden’, in his list of wondrous things of the universe, and he was a very happy boy.  He did much squeaking and pointing, and quite a lot of intense staring.  Behold, this is how an addiction is born.  Still, there are worse things to be addicted to than plasticine animation films.  He will probably get around to those in later life.

Other than that, it has been a day of chores.  Groceries have been bought, laundry has been laundered, houses have been fettled and school has been prepared for.  Lists of things that parents must do when children are at school have also been made.  They are depressingly long and joyless, but must be approached nonetheless.  This week I have to get the kids’ new passports sorted out, which is always a dull, dreary and expensive job.  I also have to talk to our IFA about making a will.  This too is a dull, dreary and expensive job. 

It hardly seems worth it, given the fact that I have nothing but debts and a lot of books that nobody else wants to read.  Apparently I have to decide how I want my body to be disposed of in the event of my death to save the children from having to make such traumatic decisions at a later date.  This is something I can be thinking about when pairing the socks or scraping spaghetti sauce off the splashback.  I’m hoping that I will either be raised up to heaven with my body intact, or die in a rolling fireball, thus saving the children and myself the worry about whether I want to be cremated.  I’m thinking of deciding on the flip of a coin.  After all, these decisions should not be taken lightly.  I’ve decided not to discuss it with Tallulah.  I’ve only just got her to stop musing over the earthly remains of Aunty Con (see blogging way back in the mists of time) and the dead squirrel, and she didn’t even know Aunty Con.

If she thinks she’s going to have to help me to the choir celestial she will either lay booby traps all over the house or force Tilly into another one of her Heath Robinsonesque inventions.  These mainly involve cardboard and sellotape, so at least I will be recyclable, but I don’t fancy being measured up while I’m still in the land of the living.  We must maintain a veil of silence.  It will be for the best.

My aunt’s ex-husband once got the offer of a coffin in part payment for some work he did for the local funeral parlour.  He decided to take them up on the offer, as coffins are very, very expensive items.  When my aunt pointed out that none of them were either dead or even very near to death, and that she didn’t fancy leaving it in the attic in case of emergency, as this seemed a little too macabre, he suggested offering it to my grandmother!  They would have had to come out and measure her first, so this suggestion was also vetoed on the grounds that my gran might find it somewhat insulting, and think that he was dropping her a hint.  He was most offended, and sulked about it for several weeks afterwards.  Some people have no eye for a bargain, that’s the problem!