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I aten't dead

art, hare, painting
Having left behind a link to my new blog, I have (not so) promptly changed the title and, therefore, the URL - I can now be tracked down via:

http://mumonashoestring.blogspot.co.uk/

Rest assured I am still here, reading, lurking, enjoying, caring...

So... Ummm... Yes...

art, hare, painting
Let's just say this isn't all jacket potatoes...



I'm not going to spam my LJ with baby posts, but if anyone's interested there is a separate blog here:

http://pregnantatthedropofahat.blogspot.com/
art, hare, painting
For many years now I have occasionally been attacked by migraines which have attended some sort of ninja training academy. There's never been anything I could identify as the cause, no one food, drink, activity or situation.

Yesterday's migraine was different. It was in a different part of my head, the pain was sharper and more constant, none of my usual tricks (lying in a dark room, not moving, sipping water and taking a couple of co-codamol) worked. Then the temperature started. Then the vomiting, followed by the neck pain, and by the time the little red/purple pinprick rash appeared around my eyes and mouth I was getting seriously worried.

To cut a long story short, I ended up in A&E having a finger prick test, two sets of blood tests, temperature, blood pressure, chest X-ray, and finally a CT scan. Interspersed with these were injections of painkillers and anti-emetics. Matt spent the evening sitting in a darkened cubicle with a grumpy wife who must have been extremely bad company. We got home after midnight.

Turns out, I have an arachnoid cyst in my brain. At some point I'll be offered a referral to a neurologist to learn more about it.

In the meantime, I shall simply cherish yesterday as an opportunity to meet the lovely Blanche ("I'm 83 y'know"), and to be regaled with stories of how her wig won the 100 metres race at her granddaughter's school sports day.
art, hare, painting

Spent today at the Excel centre enjoying the various nerdy delights of Salute 2011.

Pictures of my 37 year old, 6'5'' goth husband having his arse handed to him at the gaming table by a 7 year old girl in a pink sparkly T-shirt will follow when I have the feeling back in my feet and the motivation to go all the way downstairs for the camera, but in the meantime, a few highlights:
  • The group of 6 very well costumed storm troopers (complete with unnecessarily large guns) wandering round, accompanied by an adorable 5'8'' Darth Vader (presumably travel sized for their convenience)
  • Occasional march-pasts by a group of American Civil War re-enactors (much shouting and waving of flags)
  • Finding a set of all three Pratchett witches cast in white metal and ready for painting by yours truly at discount price
  • The contrast between the hall full of chubby nerds going into ecstasies over tiny, tiny models of various kinds of infantry, and the hall full of super-fit, revoltingly vital types signing up for the London Marathon
Made up for all the sweaty men walking around smelling like sacks of month-old laundry and shedding dandruff where e'er they did go...

That explains everything

art, hare, painting

I've just found out that Matt dreamed last night that he'd been offered a contract as a WWE wrestler.

I suppose I'm lucky I didn't get huracanrana'ed out of bed and tombstoned on the landing really...


Domestic bliss

art, hare, painting

Frankie the cat is settling in beautifully. So well, in fact, that he feels perfectly confident about waking us up at 2am by sitting on the blanket box under the bedroom window and yowling at the top of his (surprisingly capacious) lungs like a muezzin being beaten with a sockful of pennies.

Once I had ensured that we were not being burgled by a horde of animated miniature air-raid sirens I quietened the hairy little marauder down and settled back into the three inch strip of bed kindly reserved for me by my giant starfish husband.

Said husband appears to have been experimenting with strange and unnatural forces, causing him to undergo a nightly transformation into a creature comprised of approximately 68% elbow, 18% snore, and 5% thrashing fiend.

However, the remaining 9% has apparently learned to give his wife a backrub whilst sleeping, so I'm not going to complain.

 


Census meme

art, hare, painting
Hmm, lets see...

1981 I was not even one year old, living with my parents in a tiny cottage in a tiny village in Oxfordshire. I liked geese, and cheese. I disliked hats with a fiery hatred.

1991 I was somewhere between 10 and 11 years old. We lived in the same little house, and I attended a local CofE 'middle' school with a red and blue uniform and an open-air swimming pool which meant that we spent a good proportion of our PE lessons shivering, smacking each other with floats, and catching fungal infections.

2001 I was 20 years old and in my final year of University. I shared a hyooge Victorian terraced house with 6 other students and spent most of my time in the dingy bit of the Student Union bar known as 'Goth Corner' smoking Marlboro Reds and drinking tea. Sometimes I even studied. I graduated with a 2:i.

2011 I live in Bedford with my husband of just about 6 months, two lizards, four snakes, three chickens, four rats, and our lovely Birman cat. I work in London and hate commuting, but not as much as I hate the prospect of working in one of the typically dull jobs I see advertised in Bedford for a pittance of a wage.

Redress Claims - enjoy your £5000 fine

wtf?, fuckers, what?
Despite being registered with TPS (the telephone preference service) these witless monkeys have somehow acquired our number from somewhere and have been calling daily, desperate, desperate I tell you, to reunite us with what is doubtless a fortune in unfairly snatched credit card charges, bank charges and mis-sold payment protection.

Rather than leap at this golden opportunity with both hands and rush to pay their solicitor £395 to start work immediately on my behalf, I have reported them to the TPS in the hope that, even if they can't be tarred, feathered and boiled alive in their own urine, they can at least be fined £5000 and told to leave us the hell alone.

Ye gods but I'm an ungrateful wench...

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