I would like to talk about my day yesterday.  It didn't start well...

I would like to talk about my day yesterday.

Peacefully dreaming and dribbling about the Gosling, I was suddenly woken up by the sounds of the bin-men. “Shit!” I hadn’t put my bins out.  Again.  I hadn’t since Christmas, shit was getting cray cray bad with my household waste.   (I was one more cereal packet away from the council slapping my wrists).  I ran down stairs; sporting a granny nightie, hair wild, and raced to the bin man ‘hotty’ ( no teeth, but wearing a nice high vis = hot enough in my eyes).  He collected my bin and remarked – “Hey you, we’ve seen you undressed more over the years then we’ve seen you dressed ey.”

Now while it is indeed true that the bin-men over the years have seen me on numerous occasions running in a towel after the lorry wailing PLEASEEE don’t drive away, no one wants this to be their thing.  ”Oh I am sure not” I said, “you’ve seen me in clothes lots of times” I  casually replied.  ”Nah, you’re that lady, Birthday suit Boullevard”.  Oh dear.

Next I will start thinking this is acceptable...

Next I will start thinking this is acceptable…

Next- I ate a Cadbury’s Creme Egg for breakfast.  Washed down with a pack of frazzles and a black coffee. You know that shit has got real when this is your breakfast.  I tried to do it while watching BBC Breakfast, it just didn’t feel right.  So I instead watched Daybreak and that Keith Chegwin bloke bounce around knocking on people’s door giving them a fiver.  Whatever next, smoking crack in my bed, watching Ice road truckers?  Surely that is the next step after deeming a creme egg as an acceptable breakfast.  My life was catapulting out of control.

Yep.  Worst nightmare.

Yep. Worst nightmare.

Then I went to do my makeup and I saw it.  A fricking grey hair.  Goading me in the mirror- You are getting old it said.  You are getting grey. You are ON THE SHELF.  I couldn’t believe it.  My mum isn’t even grey.  And she has bigger boobs.  And can cook.

After a brief weep on the floor, I thought- Laurie, pull yourself together, if Britney can get through 2007, you can get through this ( JESUS, remember that phase, bald hair, awful trainers, attacking photographers with an umbrella – how crazy was that!!) Anyway I digress, I put on some clothes and headed to work.

The day was a blur of meetings, phone calls, and emails, but one thing was constant.  I was wearing bad pants.  You know what I am saying.  Pants that make you all day curse lace, curse your arse, curse the fact that you have been brought up to not pick your knickers out of your arse in public.  At about 3pm I had had enough.  Commando I would have to go.  I went to the loo, and that is when I realised I had been wearing them not only inside out, but back to front.  Thank God I hadn’t been knocked over by a bus. Doctors would have probably decided to not save me.  Grey hair and back to front pants.   Repeat after me – I am not a catch.

The main offender...

The main offender…

Last but not least I ate a packet of Monster Munch pickled onion crisps in the car home.  Well the day was a write off; I had eaten a creme egg for breakfast.  May as well truly disgust society.  (Monster Munch are a common crisp.  They reek of a lady that will soon be drinking cider in a park at 10am. But they are good, and to be fair to me I only eat them in the privacy of my own home.  In real life I eat Kettle Chips).  Anyway I was gorging on them, like flies gorge on a shit birthday cake, and then I tasted it.  I had eaten a whole Monster hand of pickled onion flavour.  No crisp, just flavour.  Putrid, strong, onion- a second of hell which I regretted for the rest of the evening.  I swear it was like a giant onion was following me around, every hiccup was hell, every time I opened my mouth, it was hell.

I thought no one would notice and then my friend came around.  I kissed him hello.  ”WHAT have you eaten Laurie?!  Its like kissing a pervy waiter from Greece, you truly stink.”  ”Well I have a grey hair too, so deal with it” I replied, covering my mouth.

We sat down, and discussed our mutually crap days.  After a few glasses of wine, we played Tinder.  Confidence in tatters I was not hopeful of a single match. But then, something miraculous happen.  I matched with every single right swipe.  After 5 matches, we started counting.  The final count was 28 matches.  All after each other.

And just like that I realised that it didn’t matter that I stunk of onion, that my vag vaj vaj was red raw from awkward lace chafing, that the bin-men think I am coming onto them, I am a hero.  I possess a tinder superpower. I can lull men in with my pout pictures.  It turned out to be a great day.  I danced around my living room.

And then I played again today.  Haven’t matched with anyone yet.  Hero to zero I guess.  Story of my life.  Bloody Tinder.  Next stop- The bin-man.

2 Responses to “The day in the life of a singleton”

  1. girlseule says:

    28 matches in a row, damn girl nice run! Don’t worry I was mortified when I realised I had grey hairs, nothing a bit of hair dye can’t fix.

  2. Katie says:

    I’ve recently had Raisinets for breakfast… I don’t know if that is on the same level as a cream egg considering that there is the shriveled remains of fruit in it, but it’s bad nevertheless.

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