Now I know there’s entirely no excuse for my absolute tardiness and inability to write a post since January. It’s disgraceful and I am filled with horrendous amounts of scalding shame……
So what has affected my ability to put pen to paper these past months? (Not that it’s actually pen to paper any more, but finger to key just doesn’t have the same romantic-type writer-ish ring to it, now does it?)
I’d like to say that it was because I was kidnapped by an insanely scary yet pure-at- heart band of ruffians who put me to work in a sock factory making well, er, socks. (obviously). They’ve only just let me out for good behaviour and because I reached my own personal goal of twenty finished socks! Woo hoo!
Twenty finished socks? I hear you say…that is an absolutely pathetic number of socks, seeing as you’ve been AWOL for 5 months! Ah, but you don’t know what the socks were made from do you? They were created with the silk from a very rare and scary spider. As I have no doubt mentioned before, spiders are not my most favourite thing on earth, so milking them for their silk, (or ‘Silky Milking’ as we in the trade call it) was a harsh and acutely terrifying experience for me!
But that of course, isn’t what happened… You, dear reader, are slightly silly for even believing that story even a little bit…I know I paint such a rich and interesting picture that you’re saying to yourself…’This must indeed, be true!’ but come on; milking silk for socks? He he! I bet you feel just a tad bit foolish for being so gullible!
I am now the proud owner of a business! Yeah baby! As before (when I was writing blogs willy nilly) my laptop has been permanently attached to my knee, but I have had to employ the willpower of a god (someone really strong like Thor or Odin rather than one of the less impressive ones obviously) to keep my recalcitrant fingers from wandering on to wordpress…I have my very own website and everything! Feel free to pop along and have a gander..I’d love to know what you think:
I had some stunningly-marvellous-websitey-genius-people helping me obviously, but I am rather chuffed at what I have managed to cobble together! It was all done with a generous helping of very little sleep, lots of cake (mmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm, cake!), some healthy yet probably slightly childish tantrums at The Brother when I couldn’t possibly understand why I needed to acquaint myself with SEO keywords and Cookies (I assure you-not the chocolate chip filled, interesting kind!)
So that’s my excuse (the real, non spider story one too) and I’m sticking to it! After a ridiculously long bout of hard work and inforced reclusiveness, I am back in the world, and don’t feel such debilitating guilt for taking an hour off on a sunday to catch you all up on FBH news….
Of course, the random occurences and embarrassing happenings haven’t just stopped because I haven’t been writing about them, oh no! They continue their at inevitable and alarming pace….And so to the title of this particular blog:
As I may have mentioned in the past, I am a person who is 5ft 9in. Now, this in itself is not a bad thing. I am able to reach up high in supermarket shelves to help little old ladies to the high up cake (who have been known to bark at me rather than just ask, how rude!), I can also see above most crowds, and make a rather impressive lamp-post with my arm in the air brandishing my illuminated phone for The Titchy Friends along dark alleyways when we’ve had one or two glasses of pink fizz!
So all in all, I have grown used to how tall I am, and the relative pit falls that are associated with what feels like giving the Empire State building a run for its money! One of these afore-mentioned pit falls happens to be how often I unsuspectingly bang my head (Ah ha! Now the title becomes clear, heh?) and a few recent instances come to mind:
Instance 1 (Also known as Handbag Head Horreurs!)
A new handbag always has me clutching it protectively to my side, so imagine me in the cinema loo: No hook. There’s no way on this great earth of ours that I am putting it down on any manky surface. Ever. What to do? It will fall off and become a nuisance if I leave it on my shoulder…..Hang it around my neck: Huzzah! A nifty and rather clever solution, if I don’t say so myself! Everything is going swimmingly until it comes to pulling up my jeans (yes I know this might be ‘too much of the informations’ for all of you sensitive creatures out there, but bear with!)
I lean forward, and in that small pocket of time, stupidly forget about the sheer volume and weight of said handbag (I am one of those people who will be able to produce whatever you need: paracetamol, nail file, plasters, cake, safety pins, lip balm, mints, chocolate, washing line, kitchen sink…) As you can probably guess, I lose the battle with my now evil and cackling handbag, and crash my poor head into the stall door in front of me.
Now this is a popular cinema, with anything up to 30-ish female patrons making use of the facilities at any one time: Once they’ve got over the fact that there seems to be some sort of crazed monster trying unsuccessfully to escape the stall, there ensues a deathly silence only punctuated by a nervous giggle from one small girl. The next painful dilemma for me then is: Do I stay in there and quietly die of shame and embarrassment, or do I walk out of there, head held high as though nothing strange whatsoever has occurred? Much as I’d have liked to do the former, the latter won-just! (I think Ryan Reynolds was in the film I was about to watch, and the prospect of watching him gorgeously smoulder on the big screen for two hours would probably have got me out of that loo even if I’d managed to lose all my clothes and grow a tail!)
And now we come to yesterday’s delightful occurence, and the reason that prompted me to pull FBH out of semi-retirement:
Instance 2 (Also known as The Cake Made Me Do It)
Cake. (mmmm, cake) Yes It would be about cake wouldn’t it?!
Picture the scene: In a coffee shop with The Parents, The Brother and New And Lovely Sweetie Of The Brother (Catchy title, I know!) and New And Lovely Sweetie Of The Brother asks me if I’m having cake. (She’s new, she’ll learn that is a most redundant question!) So anyway, I look towards the cake. I can’t see what the inside of the toffee cake looks like, so I lean in to get a closer look. What my cake-distracted brain hasn’t quite managed to compute in enough time, is this:
As with any sensible coffee/cake establishment, there is a highly polished (almost invisible – honest) pane of glass in between me and the cake. Sensible, otherwise they’d be forever having to quell cake-induced riots I’m sure…
A most almighty crash occurs, with my head being the main protagonist in a very excruciating and mortifying scene where, thankfully the glass remains whole, and where New And Lovely Sweetie Of The Brother and I are able to laugh our way up the queue, and hopefully dispel anyone else’s view of me being mentally unhinged by our ability to see the funny side!
I also crashed my head in exactly the same place on The Parent’s car boot later on, but as this was simply painful and not funny, we shall gloss over my obvious misfortune and go straight on to the fact that:
I managed to achieve a personal best by mentioning the word ‘cake’ 16 times in one blog post. Hurrah!
I hope this finds you all well, and in less pain than me, as no doubt you are all sensible people and manage not to be taken in by cake (woo, 17 times!) on such a regular basis!
Fatty Blob Head