I went to Newcastle yesterday and did something rather shocking. I bought a new handbag. Now, this wasn't a huge extravagance, it was only a little Cath Kidston number for £45. OK, ok, so I also bought the matching purse (£25). I figured that all my EBAY auctions were ending this weekend, guaranteeing me a few hundred pounds. So, I indulged a little.
I was a little annoyed when I got home to discover Walt Disney Cyril had been kitchen counter surfing again. The covetous cur had snatched and devoured:
- a whole packet of butter (including the foil wrapper)
- an avocado pear (he left the stone, but scoffed the skin)
- a tub of M&S organic hummus
I admit, he was looking a little green around the gills, but I figured a little heartburn served the beast right. He has also munched his way through several knickers, nibbled the toes of a few ballet pumps and severed one of the cords on my pilates machine this week. Let me tell you, dear reader, those little indiscretions were mere trifles compared to the biblical carnage the best unleashed last night.
I awoke at 4am to find Cyril staggering drunkenly across the bedroom floor. He was still looking rather unwell. I decided I had better take him outside for some fresh air. I reluctantly got out of bed and shuffled towards the door. Cyril appeared to be rooted to the spot by my bed. Suddenly, without any warning, he violently vomited several litres of steaming, putrid yellow liquid. It was Cyril's very own Linda Blair moment. What, at that point, I hadn't realised was that the hound had strategically directed his vomit. He had scored a direct hit on my Macbook, which was happily charging up by the bed. I shall spare you a detailed description of the scene of grotesque and toxic devastation. Let me just say it was utterly disgusting. VOMITROCIOUS. There was even a mini-explosion when the Macbook's charger went up in a puff of smoke. I tried my best to save my beloved Macbook (it is probably my favourite possession). I am afraid it was too late.
This morning the letter 'G' appeared to be the only casualty. I typed an mail to Rochester that was entirely lacking in Gs. I wonder if the swarthy rogue even noticed he was missing my G spot. By lunchtime the letters H, J, K, L and the spacebar had also given up the ghost. I have wept buckets. You see, I will never be able to afford another Macbook. That is the tragedy. And I did love it so.
I am typing this on my teacher's laptop, a clunking behemoth of a Toshiba. I do have an appointment at the modestly entitled 'Genius Bar' of my local Apple store tomorrow. I wonder whether they have ever had a dog-vomit emergency before. To be honest, I am not optimistic. I see little evidence of 'genius' at the Apple Genius Bar. All I have ever seen is a confusion of goatee-chinned hipsters in Converse trainers shaking their heads sadly at their customers before selling them a brand-new product.
The irony is, today I have indeed made £400+ on EBAY, selling bits and pieces. That was earmarked for a new pane of glass for the sitting room window, a haircut and an electricity bill. Today should have been a good and productive day. But, I appear to be down a £850 Macbook. If only I hadn't bought that handbag. I feel I am being punished somehow for my rampant extravagance.
Yesterday Madam Noir and I discussed where she would find a new lezza 'friend'. I asked whether she had considered interweb dating. Does match.com cater for lezzas? Maybe it has a sister-site, entitled snatch.com?
'Who did you meet on match.com again?' she enquired. That question had us cackling hysterically over our scones. We weren't so much laughing at the men in question, but at the frankly juvenile but satisfying codenames we came up for them. Who could forget:
- Dr Harry Potterer (a camp but wickedly witty theatre director)
- G Spot Joe
- Senor Boldon (aka The Burger Baron, The Lexus Lothario)
- Atticus (the lawyer) who was swiftly demoted to Twatticus after our first date.
- The Grangetown Graduate (the only younger man on the list)
- Rochester (named after fanny rat poet The Earl of Rochester, and of course the taciturn and brooding Mr Rochester from Jane Eyre).
BUT, the codename that had us in absolute stitches was Rumple-le-Bon.
'Why Rumple-le-Bon?' Madam Noir asked.
Well. If you are all sitting comfortably I shall tell you the tale of Rumple-le-Bon. When RLB turned up for our date he looked decidedly elfish and impish, ever so slightly troll-like. He resembled a character from a Grimms fairy tale. He resembled Rumpelstiltskin. As for the Le Bon part, well, he was bedecked in 80s finery, including, slip on winkle-pickers and a leather blouson jacket. Rumple-le-Bon was born. It is possibly my favourite codename ever (with the exception of Rug Munchkin, my name for Madam Noir's very short, lesbian physiotherapist).