I am not a hydrologist

I have a cluster of spots on my chin. I have not had this many spots forever. I am unsure as to how to go about dealing with them. I have thrown tea tree oil on my chin and then nearly vomited when I sipped my tea and ended up with tea tree tea with hint of teenage acne.  This is bad. To distract myself I have been thinking about the collective verb for spots.  I quite like cluster, but it sounds a bit space age and exciting.  Spots are not space age and exciting, although it wouldn’t surprise me to find that Buzz Aldrin had acne.  Nevertheless, it’s not for me.  I am leaning more towards the word harvest.  A harvest of acne. It sounds much more peasanty and earthy and I am definitely peasanty and earthy.

What is particularly fetching is that one of the spots is right next to the part of my lip I seem to have eaten in the night due to worrying about Jason and his organising. I alternated between dreaming that he had packed us all neatly into vacuum sealed bags and stuffed us under the bed and dreaming that he had turned up in Nassau with the passenger seat of a VW Touran and one of my old shopping lists, while I went to Co-op with a bag of perfectly ironed men’s underpants.  So, chewed lip next to spot looks like cold sore.  I am so attractive it is a wonder that the men are not knocking down the door to get at me now that he is away.  I shall have to beat them off.  I may set Doctor Smell and Doctor Fell on them.  That will learn them.

I have eaten so much in the last few days it is a toss up whether I am adding another layer to my winter coat or I have galloping tape worm.  I seem to be putting it straight onto my bosom.  Oscar loves this as he is very keen on leaning his weary head on my boobs.  My friend’s daughter fell asleep on them yesterday.  They are clearly quite comfy.  I am getting stressed that I may have to helicopter in for an emergency Rigby and Peller treatment due to excess Quality Streets on the bosom.  I cannot afford to buy any more quality bras.  The joint bank account is only for emergencies.  Mind you.  If my bosom breaks away from its moorings and takes a small child’s eye out I suppose that will count as an emergency.

It has been another stressful day.  I don’t know why I even type those sentences anymore.  Every day for me is stressful.  I could get het up in a Zen monastery.  Actually that would be a total nightmare. I’m so clumsy I would probably trample all over their lovely raked sand, vomit into a shrine because of the smell of rancid yak’s butter on the prayer wheel and laugh inappropriately at the head man’s ridiculous hat.  Let it be top of the list of places I should never go.

Anyway.  Because it has been a stressful day and I have been deliberately not thinking about the fact that Jason is away now for nine days and I am all alone with the children and Brownies starts again next week etc, etc, etc, I have been filling my brain.  It is now half past eleven at night.  I no longer want my brain to be full, but I am afraid, as with my tea, the last of the Quality Streets and a sneaky piece of Yule log, I have overstuffed it, and now random pieces of information are spinning away in my head, leaking out of my ears.

I spent ten minutes upstairs when I should have been putting away some laundry so I don’t trip over it in the night when I invariably have to get up because of some infantile disaster going on around me, thinking about the lyrics to Wham’s Club Tropicana.  I hate this song.  Oh yes! I was a Wham fan in my day, but even back in the day I hated this song.  I never saw the point of it.  It is on heavy rotation on those music reminiscences channels nowadays.  What fascinates me is that looking at it now it is quite clear for everyone except Mr. McBlindy McBlind of Old Blind Town that George Michael is as gay as ninepence, and yet at the time it never even crossed my mind.  The innocence.

So.  I have been trundling about singing (in my head) ‘Club Tropicana drinks are free (ee eee) Fun and sunshine, There’s eeee nuff for everyone, something something is the sea, but don’t worry, something something.’ Then I got very bothered about some bit that goes ‘rubbing shoulders with the stars.’  I know this now because I had to look it up.  But all the while I was upstairs I was singing; ‘Rubbing faces with the stars.’  No! No! No! Why would anyone want to rub faces with the stars?  That’s stupid.  That’s not right.  Then I imagined myself as George Michael rubbing faces with Elton John.  Then I was hideously disturbed and had to sit down.  Then I couldn’t get the picture out of my mind.  Then I came down here to look up the right lyrics.  Honestly, I’m not feeling much better about it now.  Unfortunately that is my song tonight Matthew.  Imagine me if you will, spots akimbo, fourteen layers of pyjamas on, staying up until four in the morning with George and his stupid bloody Club Tropicana.  Yes folks.  We’re here all night.  Try the fish.

I have decided to have a bath to see if this calms me down.  I am on my last Amazon Vine review book for this month.  I am very pleased.  The other three were not very good and before that I was Going With The Wind.  This means that I have not read a single nice book during the whole of the Christmas period.  It is too much for one woman to bear.  The one I have in hand currently is called: ‘About Grace,’ by Anthony Doeer.  It has great reviews and the first chapter was lovely, albeit only a page long.  I am now worried about chapter two because of these sentences:

‘He had been a father, a husband, and a hydrologist.  he was not sure if he was any of those things now.’

It’s the hydrologist thing that gets me.  Surely one would know if one were a hydrologist or not.  If someone was running up and down the aisles in a plane shouting for a hydrologist I doubt  I’d be thinking about getting up, standing in that half crouch of not quite sure’dness.

I suppose it’s something to be sure of.  Perhaps being definite about that will stop me worrying about George and Elton all night.  I hope they don’t get friction burns on their noses poor things.