15 minutes with a bum deal

garden gardening hosepipe tube
Photo by Gratisography on Pexels.com

 

It wasn’t quite 15 minutes, almost though. 15 minutes with a flexible tube up my backside, that is. Clearly, this may be a fine case of too much information, but hey-ho, sometimes you just have to share.

Having reached that age when the good old NHS sends a letter inviting you for a bowel cancer screening scope, there was no hesitation about going, even if the invitation was not all that appealing.

So off I went yesterday. Enema done at home first, check. Checked myself in and did the looooooooooong wait for my turn. Caused a bit of confusion when hearing the nurse calling “Ruth”, mind. Off I charged, eager to get done and dusted and head to work. Problem was, I was the wrong Ruth, but we shared the same date of birth – bizarre. The nurses then moved me from room to room leaving me to wonder if they’d forgotten about me. They hadn’t. Eventually, the paperwork was sorted. My lower clothing replaced with modesty shorts – a giant gaping hole at the back, and off I went to the procedure room, carrying my worldly goods in a large, supplied, plastic bag.

3 lovely nurses took care of me and before long they were pumping gas into me and doing their best to distract.  During our general chatter, I did my best to watch my inflating lower intestine on the big screen. Let’s just say viewing wasn’t exactly Downton Abbey. Anyway, the procedure was a little painful or more discomfort and so I eventually took the offered “happy gas”, sucking on that device as if my life depended on it.

So why am I telling you all this? Well, so many people won’t go, indeed as the nurse explained to me, many just don’t arrive for appointments, wasting time and money. For me it was a no brainer, and I’d encourage everybody to go along and take one for the team(sorry), but mostly take the opportunity to get the all clear, or catch something early.

Bottoms up 🙂

 

 

 

 

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15 minutes with WWE, give me strength and Brexit

potatoes fun knife fork
Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

 

Honestly, all to be found tonight for viewing is WWE. I know, I know, you’re probably thinking what the heck is she doing, lost her mind and forgotten how to use the TV remote. Well, no – debatable of course – there’s simply nothing else on. Other than repeats of repeats of repeats of Midsomer Murders, NCIS, Downton Abbey and so much more. Give me some tips for good viewing, please.

Now I like WWE, well used to. These days mind, all they do is chat and or throw insults at each other from afar. A bit like watching grown-up children in a playground, antagonising each other with stoopid comments that result in a bit of very staged argy-bargy. The difference being that unlike school kids in comfy uniforms, the wrestlers are prancing around in colourful lycra, ripped trousers, barely there tops or no top at all, and of course none of this takes place until after a regular visit to the tanning studio. I wonder if the WWE wrestlers are contracted to take out obligatory tanning contracts? Probs do.

I had a tanning session once, came away smelling like a freshly peeled potato. Not pleasant as you can imagine.

OK, that’s it, I can’t take it anymore, let me rather watch all the Brexit news. Now where is that blooming remote?

 

 

 

 

 

This blog is here for me to write for 15 minutes and then stop. No great theme, no great planning, only tap away on the keyboard. Thank you for popping by

15 minutes and forgetting my password and a pair of flared jeans on the Bee

So here’s the thing. After signing up for an online course that will increase my knowledge, career prospects and challenge me muchly, without denting the old pocket – it be a free one, I’ve forgotten the password! Now, some would say not to worry, there be a link for forgotten passwords, it does cross my mind that perhaps it means I’m not as excited about this course as I should be.

 

1970

photo from: eBay – pattern just in case you fancy running up a pair this weekend

Onto better things. The Great British Sewing Bee tonight is back to the 1970s and tasked the sewers with a good old pair of flared trousers. The hubster, in all seriousness, tells me he was pretty fond of his flares. GASP, would have liked to see him in those, and not being the tallest bloke on the street, I can imagine they flapped around a pair of platform shoes!

And now they are pogo-ing! Hilarious, poor old Esme almost got wiped out by Patrick

giphy

Gif borrowed from HERE

 

 

If you came across this blog, it’s here for me to write for 15 minutes without worry about too much. Thank you for visiting

 

15 minutes with a cheeky piece of cod

Once a decade or so the hubster shares a joke that has me a-chucklin’. This week it arrived.

Photo by Matt Hardy on Pexels.com

A lady walks to her local fish shop, approaches the counter and says, “I would like a piece of cod.”

The fishmonger smiles and says, “Sorry, madam, but we have no cod.”

The lady wastes no time in reply, “But I want a piece of cod.”

“Madam,” the fishmonger says, “We have no cod.”

This goes back and forth for quite some time until the fishmonger says, “Madam, let me spell cod for you. C O F.”

The lady is quick to reply, “there is no F in cod.”

The fishmonger smiles, “Exactly, Madam. That’s what I’ve been telling you for the last half an hour we have no F-in-Cod.”

Should you have fallen on this blog, it is purely there for me to write for 15 minutes without giving the content too much thought

15 minutes out with a giraffe and frolleague

 

giraffe

photo from here

Funny how you think about things, but recently I reminded myself about a night out with a frolleague. The night itself wasn’t memorable with regards to where we went – bar in Greenpoint, Cape Town – for it was all about having a drink and just chilling. Anyway, what makes me smile about that night is how this frolleague must have been over 6ft tall, while I’m around 5ft 1 or 2 when extending my neck. She wore heels too so you can imagine how we looked. She tall, very blonde, very dynamic personality, and me short, dark and wearing flats.  Quite possibly she being the giraffe, and me being the keeper, tagging along behind

 

 

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

15 minutes with deaf ears, colleagues, M25, M1 and a breathing duvet

I should have had loads of 15-minute blogs by now. I’ve worked many through my mind all eager to hit the old keyboard and then nothing.

So trying to do a recap of a few:

  1. One was about a colleague who rents a room in a house with several others. Colleague explained that on walking into a room where her housemates are they burst out laughing at her. Are these people not miserable examples of human beings?
  2. Another was about the same colleague who was told it would not be possible to attend college in the UK as her English was not good enough, and this despite holding a full-on hour or more conversation in English and handing over English coursework etc.  I give this young person much credit, for at the end she said something along the lines of “well let’s see if you understand this then. Please call your supervisor I’d like to speak to them instead.” Suffice to say she was accepted by said supervisor immediately
  3. Sat on the M25 and M1 today for so long I might as well have got out, hitched a bag over my shoulder and strolled home. Jeepers, what a way to spend a day off. Stuck in traffic no matter the route chosen. Took me 2 3/4 hrs to do a 1 1/2 hr trip.  Good job there were rhubarb and custard sweets in a little box at hand to work my way through. Mind you, they did leave my mouth all claggy like. Note to self, take water with next time you travel
  4. Have completed 2 online hearing tests recently – as you do. One just now. The first one told me I had some hearing loss and a proper test would be good. I scoffed because the hubster is the one with the hearing problems. There be no-wax build up in his lug-holes, it’s just good old going blooming deaf. And how do I know? Holy smokes, the homeowners 3 streets away have taken to treating our house as podcasts. As in taking up seat in their lounge, flinging open the windows and just listening to our TV. OK, a slight exaggeration. OK, OK, a complete exaggeration! Truth is the volume on the TV breaks the sound barrier whenever he has the control. Second hearing test tells me no problem with my hearing, get on with your life and get the hubster to the test rather
  5. Much chatter on the radio today about switching the central heating on this weekend. I don’t know what the fuss is all about, ours has hardly been off. We will be inching it up though 🙂
  6. Hubster is away for the weekend. Doing some gardening and stuffs with his sister. I will be watching the TV at a low level. Working the graveyard shift Saturday and Sunday and with luck getting some yoga in
  7. Hubster and I are fed up with our duvet. It be cuddly, it be soft. And it be bloody boiling hot. Much googling later and it seems not so much the tog, rather it is not a breathable one. Who would have thought to ask if a duvet breathes or not? John Lewis here we come. Yep, we’re going all out, to heck with the cost, give us a duvet that breathes.

Photo credit: I am not sure and I apologise but had to use it because it is so darn cute and cheery

NB I do my utmost to use photos flagged for free reuse.

robin on fence

What the heck is this blog all about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

15 minutes with alpha, charlie and an aubergine

brinjal

Photo credit: Mine

Unlike a lot of my graveyard shifts when I’ve been working alone, last night we were three. And my goodness what a massive difference it made, on so many levels. Laughter was surely heard from Buckinghamshire to Glasgow me thinks.

After my mispronouncing the Headcount Report which left the three of us roaring, one of my colleagues relayed the story of how her husband called his insurance company to report a chip in his windscreen. Wanting to lighten the moment he proceeded to tell his number plate using a more humourous version of the alpha, charlie phonetic alphabet.

K – for Kit-kat he said. By this time my colleague was almost controlling her laughter, and then she hit us with the classic – O for Aubergine. Well, we almost collapsed. OK, you probably had to be there to appreciate it, but say it out loud a few times and you’ll have a giggle at least. Especially when you consider he really didn’t get it that it wasn’t O for Obergine.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

 

 

 

 

15 minutes and the need to rewind time

Eternal_clock

Image from HERE

Licking breakfast marmalade from my fingers, hubster is considering his next move to wash-up or head out to run.

“What’s the time?” I said.

“Huh,” he says, a sense of glee in his voice alerting me this is not going to be as easy as it should be. “The clock says 7.58, the radio says 8.01, so it must be 9am.”

“You what?”

“I’m running at 9am, you asked me.”

“No, I asked you what the time is.”

“No, you asked me what time I’m running.”

Giving up licking marmalade, I reply. “I didn’t. I asked you what the time is and you said, The clock says 7.58, the radio says 8.01, so it must be 9am.”

Hubster sits down. “No, you asked me what time I’m running.”

“Well if I did, then why did you tell me it was sometime between 7.58 and 8.01?”

Hubster looks at me, that way he does when he really wants to end the conversation and pretend it hasn’t happened, as in, little smile, almost a flutter of his eyelids.

“Wouldn’t it be nice,” I said, trying hard not to stop licking fingers and start chewing them. “If we could have a rewind button and remove the last 90 seconds of our life?”

Hardly surprising to learn we both agreed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

15 minutes and some glue

When I was a little un at school the most annoying, and more so dreaded thing ever to be given to do was glue things, and perhaps that’s where my distaste for getting my fingers and hands dirty started. Anyway, glue time meant an eager teacher would bring forth a funny looking pot of glue complete with a brush that from the moment you looked at it was sticky from bristles to handle and back again, no matter how hard you tried to keep it clean.

So sticky you’d end up with fingers covered with paper that no amount of shaking and pulling would remove it, and if anything only served to move it from one hand to the other, and back again until you went half mad, had a tantrum and was told off.

Later we progressed on to a glue pot with its funny little rubber top. It had a bit of slit across the lid requiring you to push down hard to allow the glue to escape before dragging it over the paper. Evidently, my skills do not surround the glue pot of any sorts, because even with this one I always ended up in a sticky mess.

Sometimes I think about how life was simpler once upon a time and how it would be good to have some of that back.  But not if it meant going back to the darn glue pot.

glue

Photo from HERE

 

 

 

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping

15 minutes with new Downton Abbey

download

Photo: From here

Have you seen or heard? Hold onto your knickers. It be true. The Downton Abbey movie begins filming next week.

Really hoping Lady Mary is down on her luck and having to settle amongst the poor in this one.  I don’t mind if she’s relocated to a stone cottage with a tin sink in the hall, and outside loo, all down the road from Downton, or even up in London in a 2 up 2 down terrace she shares with a family of 10, most of whom are under the age of 2. Not overly bothered if she is married or not, but it would be nice if she’d put on a bit of weight because she really is way too thin to cope with the chill.

Lord Grantham and his lady need a bit of a shake-up too. My money is on them having themed murder mystery weekends where all they really do is drink endless cocktails while wearing knee-length costumes that allow them to float and fall about in a newly installed, heated swimming pool.

Lady Edith, she must have a good life this time around, because, for goodness sake, she had the crappiest life of them all.

Downstairs, well please no more weeping over husbands being framed for murder and whatnot.  Rather let’s have one of these good servants inherit a fortune and make a grab for Downton itself, or at least fall in the pool with a tray of cocktails while Lady Grantham reaches for another olive.

And as for those children. Well, let them be happy little people with no illness or anything.

 

 

What the heck is this blog about?

Should you have fallen onto this blog, the purpose it serves is to ignite my love of writing once more by simply typing whatever is on my mind for 15 minutes and stopping