Of Things and Stuff

Here's three for the price of one:



1. Gordon Gekko's Granny

Why, oh why, oh why, oh why, oh FUCKING WHY is there always some piss-stained, bent-double, overcoated, surgically shoed, geriatric, female Stock Market piranah already at the cashier's in the building society when I go in to get cash out in a hurry?
There was one of these wrinkly vipers there again today (ok, I realise you had probably guessed as much by now). She was typical of the breed - barely able to see over the counter because she had shrunk so much with age, clutching a wad of financial papers in one of her wizened, boney hands, holding a plaid, grannies' shopping bag in the other, and all the while craning forward and squinting in an effort to hear what was being said by Michelle, Fiona, Donna-Marie or whoever else the bloated fat tart was who was serving her. Quite how the fuck squinting improves your hearing Christ alone knows!
"Ah, bless", I hear you say. Bollocks, I say!! There's nothing sweet and heart-warming about these vicious old crones. They'd sell their grannies only they've been dead about 200 fucking years.
You can hear them screeching to the tarts at the tills things like "Well I want the £20,000 kept in the high-interest but my £50,000 is not working hard enough" or "The man in Zurich said my husband's pension should be going straight into Peruvian street children sales and not kept in capital bonds".
"Fuck off, granny!! Get out of my fucking way!!!" "I only want ten bastard quid - let's face it, there's only £21.50 in my fucking account anyway. Just close the fucking deal and fuck off back to your bungalow and the cats, will you?"
Do they go? Do they buggery! They just fucking stand there for hour after fucking hour after fucking hour, carrying out a complete financial fucking audit and opening new accounts faster than Ulrika Johnsson can open her legs. I was getting deep-vein thrombosis by the time the old bag finally sloped off. Death to all geriatric Gordon Gekkos, I say.

2. The Lighter Side of Married Life.



There are times when I feel like making the very-soon-to-be ex-Mrs Pither an ex-living being! This afternoon was one of those times.
I got into The Wardrobe to run an errand and, as is my want, I reached for a fag. I was then trundling along when I reached for the car's cigarette lighter. There was just a hole where the lighter had been. I instantly did a sum in my head.......2 + 2 = Mrs Pither.
I rang her later and enquired: "You know you're always taking out the cigarette lighter in the car to plug in your hands-free set? Well, have you done it recently?"
"Yes," she belched.
"When?" I asked.
"Yesterday," came the reply.
"Did you put it back in?"
"Probably not," she said.
"Probably?"
"Ok, no."
"Well, I can't find it anywhere. Where did you put it?"
"Uuuuuuurrrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm."
"Yes?"
"No idea."
"So it's lost, is it?"
"It looks so. Oh dear," she said, stifling a yawn.
"But that means my car now doesn't have a cigarette lighter."
"Never mind."
Never mind! NEVER FUCKING MIND!! That is just typical of VSTB EW. I'm amazed I ever got my penis back on those far off occasions when we toasted our marriage in love juice!! Don't get me wrong, I am by no means a possessionist Nazi but I do try to take care of the "stuff" I/we have. "Stuff", on the other hand, drifts in and out of my darling wife's life on a daily basis, mainly through complete idiocy or total lack of thought. I wouldn't mind but the not inexhaustible Pither finances have to cover replacements and right now the S S Pither is sinking fast in the Sea of Debt.
Mrs P just loses things. That's what she does. It's her raison d'etre.
The utterance of "never mind" when something disappears into the ether is one of her stock phrases. Her others, for the less enlightened, centre around the A-Level she possesses in breaking things. Familiar refrains round at The Towers are "it just came off in my hand", "it was on fire before I used it", "it's always been broken" and "well, I have to hit it hard or it won't work!"
AAAaaaaaaarrrrgghhh!!!!! I need a fag. Anyone got a light?

3. Hair of the Dog.


Before...

After...(well worth £27!!)

I felt like a dad dropping his youngest off for his first day at school today - I took Padfoot to the barber's!
Pad, my alsatian, was in desperate need of a shampoo and trim because he was shedding so much hair that the house was beginning to resemble a pair of giant, furry dice.
I call it a "barber's" but it's more of an international-grooming-salon-to-the-stars and the lad has very mixed emotions about the place.
When I take him he is so nervous he inevitably wets himself but when I collect him and it is all over he is happier than a happy thing.
Today ran true to form. As I handed him over to the two women-in-comfortable-shoes who run the place he looked back at me with those "why are you doing this to me, daddy?" eyes. God, I almost blubbed as I walked out.
Once he was shampood, clipped and buffed up, however, he looked like a canine Clooney and I virtually had to scrape him off the ceiling when I got him home.
Hurrah for Pad!! Who's a pretty boy now then?
P.S. On a point of interest concerning the two lesbians who clip his hair, the butch one is always really chatty, smiley and friendly while the pretty, feminine one is a surly old trout. Times they are a changin'.