Vile Scathings

I'm in the finest of vile moods.

Quick recap of the day after my wonderfully idjut-ic morning. The tutorial went alright. Went stright to Lidl after that to pickup groceries for the week.

Oh. * TIMEOUT * There's a girl called Tessa in my class who's got the sexiest and huskiest voice I've heard in a long while, and a smile that certainly ups the earlier one that mesmerised me... This one's sort of embarrassed yet sweet. She's tall, slim, nicely bodied, with dark blond hair and has nice eyes too. A bit out of my league, I think.

Anyway, back to the scathing.

Came home with the ambitious thought of having salmon and scrambled eggs with mixed baby leaf salad dressed in extra virgin olive oil and balsamic dressing, with brine shrimp and caviar to top, which I did. Made fried rice for Erica. So, she eats like a couple of spoons and runs to the loo. Stupid me forgot that fever and flu don't go well with fried foods. Made her toast instead, with bit of butter. Then persuaded her to see the doctor in the evening, got an appointment and booked a cab.

Around 3.50pm, I decided to not wake her up for class, and since I had to do laundry anyway, took it onto myself to shove hers in as well (yes, Celine, I know what you're thinking). Then I went to a lecture and fought valiantly for 50 minutes to stay awake. There's just something about a warm room and a rambling lecturer that makes sleep ever so enticing. Lecture over, I ran back to the laundrette to put the clothes into the drier. All was well. Then things started to be shit.

FYI, its been raining the ENTIRE FUCKING DAY. Fucking miserable and gloomy - affected me mood obviously, as we shall see shortly. Ran home, woke her up, then called the cab company to check on the cab (5.15pm now). The stupid lady on the other end apologised and said she'll send a cab in 20 minutes, to which I replied with just a tad of irritation: "20 minutes? The appointment's in 15. Fuck. Never mind. Cancel the damn cab."

So into the rain and onto the road we went, for a 20 minute walk to the surgery. Got there just after half five, soaking wet, and waited for a little while. Erica was in the doctor's room for less than 3 minutes before coming out to announce that the good doctor said nothing was wrong and that she should keep going on Paracetamol.

What the FUCK is the fascination with British doctors and fucking panadols? Between me and Erica, we've been to the surgery perhaps 6 times in a year and a half, yah, and every single fucking time, its: "Have lots of Fluids. Rest. Take some paracetamols (We'll sell you them here, but you're better off buying them from the Pharmacy down the street - cheaper." Fuck that! I could prescribe myself too! Never heard of fucking antibiotics?!

So yah. Feeling real daft now, we walk back, and I am already very tired, cold, hungry and sleepy, not to mention eternally annoyed at the standard response British doctors so brilliantly give. In other words, I was one grumpy fuckhole.

Oh, missed something - a minute after we left the home towards the surgery, Erica in her typically idjut-ic way mumbled: "You don't have to come, you know." To which I just said something to the effect of: "Shut up and walk." On the way back, I told her I'd put her laundry to wash and dry, to which she said (no prizes for guessing what): "Why did you do that? I could have done it myself. You didn't even tell me..." (Or something like that). Now, the grumpy fuckhole that I was just glared and said inelegantly: "Not again. Thank you would be nice."

Yes, Celine. I know. I just did. I don't think about stuff like this you see. I just do. Because I can and it usually doesn't cost me anything - except for having to put up with stupid nagging comments by her Majesty.

I would love to tell you that that was it. But it's not. There's a little more shit to expunge. So we went straight to the laundrette to check on the clothes. They weren't very dry but I was running short on change. So, brilliant old me decided to chuck ALL the clothes from the TWO driers into one so that I could put money into it and get it done and over with. Now, I don't know about you, but a sane and normal person would have realised at first sight that that would not work - too much clothes. Doh. So, whilst I'm taking out a small portion of clothes from the stuffed up drier, I start popping the remainder of my change into the 2nd drier again, with the 1st drier on 40 minutes.

10 pence. 20 pence.
30 pence. 40 pence.
No more change in my pants.

And the fucking drier won't run without 50 pence in it.