Tales of catastophe, sex and squalor from the Alpine Underbelly...

Belle de Neige

Monday, 1 October 2012

Your greatest fear: There is no PMT. This is just your personality



Rather forlorn today. I’m fighting a monthly urge to clean and tidy everything within three hundred feet of myself, coupled with a deep seated impulse to growl at innocent passers by like an angry mongrel bitch while trying to gnaw my own foot off because it’s annoying me. I knew immediately when I woke it was going to be one of those Mondays. I could hear the water spinning off the tyres outside, dripping off the window frame and bubbling in the drain. I turned over and put my forehead against the warm, soft skin on the back of SbH’s neck, enjoying the sub-duvet denial of daylight. He murmured something sleepy and reached for my hand. “Ah,” I thought, “How sweet,” ...until I realised he was just trying to manoeuvre my digits into position around his customary early-morning erection.


              So this afternoon, I ventured outdoors to collect a parcel for SbH from the post office (because fucking Royal Mail, of course, had to pick the one hour in the entire week that I was out last Friday to try to deliver the bloody thing). Even though the parcel allegedly contained a ‘surprise’ for me, a fifteen minute walk through the rain to the post office did nothing to improve my mood. Having spent most of the morning festering indoors at my desk I decided to treat myself to what turned out to only loosely resemble a coffee. Must remember never to do this again. The nearest street with shops and cafes on it is a loathsome pedestrian alleyway of Robert Dyas and W H Smiths outlets where every freak and mutant in the city seems to swarm like flies to an ugly festering turd. It’s actually quite fascinating; I mean, there are people who are at least four times larger than a human being ought to be or look as if they’ve had their features drawn on with a blunt mathematical compass by a one-eyed, three-fingered learning-impaired toddler in a darkened room.

Today I saw:

-         A 90 year-old lady with stud heels, a pink Chinese umbrella allowing her haughty Chihuahua to piss on someone’s bicycle.
-         A bald-headed man with a ‘coil’ comb-over like a cinnamon swirl
-         A woman who I am 98% convinced had three buttocks

Having forced down the tepid, bitter washing-up-bowl brown excuse for a coffee I decided to have a peek inside SbH’s package. Peeling off the sticky tape and rummaging within I withdrew the first object and surveyed it disbelievingly. How thoughtful of him. And now, here I am in the middle of a busy freak-infested coffee shop proudly, if inadvertently, brandishing a purple double-ended dildo for all to see. Fantastic.

Three buttocks gave me a sideways glance so I hurriedly returned it to the box.

Think how disappointed he’ll be when I tell him what time of the month it is.

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