It has been a while hasn’t it? My only excuse for not posting for so long is that I have been busy. And it’s my blog anyway. So get it right up ye.
What has been happening? Right now I am lying on the floor typing. The baby is on a cushion next to me, watching me gravely while absent-mindedly chewing a plastic ring. I have just been feeding her a mixture of baby rice and formula milk. That’s right. We are moving her onto solids. I had intended to feed her it on a spoon, but I made it too runny so I put in her tommy tippee cup. She ate it all right, but ended it soaking, what with spillages and gagging.
Lynne is out with one of her pals tonight. So I have a glass of wine. Just a small one. I attempted to watch In The Night Garden as well, but the baby cried at the Ninky Nonk. Kids are meant to love that shit as well, but be careul clicking on that link. The noises are terrifying.
Last week Lynne and the baby went to visit Lynne’s folks. I stayed here by myself. We got a new sofa too, and had chucked out the old one, so for half the week I was in here, no family, sitting on the bare floor, drinking beer and eating junk. It’s funny but I am so used to having someone there when I go to bed that I couldn’t sleep. I would just lie in the dark, listening to the noises that the house made.
On the Wednesday night I cracked and bought some cigarettes. Coming out of the shop two guys were leaning against the shutter. One of them, with a big tan* across his fucking cheek, asked me if I had a spare fag. I said no. He pointed out that I had a full deck in my hand. I conceded that that was true, but kept walking. His friend then weighed in, asking me if I had a spare fag, just as if it was the first time anyone had ever mentioned it.
Here we go, I thought. I weaken in my no smoking resolve and end up getting a kicking in the street for it. That’s the thing about Dumbarton Road; you can hardly walk down it at night without some bam trying to tap you for fags and change.
‘Look, mate,’ I snapped. ‘These are my only fucking fags and I’m fucking smoking them, all right?’
‘Alright, there’s no need to have an attitude about it,’ said the guy with the tan. He looked genuinely upset at my lack of charity.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s been a hard day.’
‘Well, don’t take it out on me,’ he said huffily, and the pair of them walked off.
*for people who don’t live in Scotland; a tan is a facial scar, usually received from a knife or bottle.
What has been happening? Right now I am lying on the floor typing. The baby is on a cushion next to me, watching me gravely while absent-mindedly chewing a plastic ring. I have just been feeding her a mixture of baby rice and formula milk. That’s right. We are moving her onto solids. I had intended to feed her it on a spoon, but I made it too runny so I put in her tommy tippee cup. She ate it all right, but ended it soaking, what with spillages and gagging.
Lynne is out with one of her pals tonight. So I have a glass of wine. Just a small one. I attempted to watch In The Night Garden as well, but the baby cried at the Ninky Nonk. Kids are meant to love that shit as well, but be careul clicking on that link. The noises are terrifying.
Last week Lynne and the baby went to visit Lynne’s folks. I stayed here by myself. We got a new sofa too, and had chucked out the old one, so for half the week I was in here, no family, sitting on the bare floor, drinking beer and eating junk. It’s funny but I am so used to having someone there when I go to bed that I couldn’t sleep. I would just lie in the dark, listening to the noises that the house made.
On the Wednesday night I cracked and bought some cigarettes. Coming out of the shop two guys were leaning against the shutter. One of them, with a big tan* across his fucking cheek, asked me if I had a spare fag. I said no. He pointed out that I had a full deck in my hand. I conceded that that was true, but kept walking. His friend then weighed in, asking me if I had a spare fag, just as if it was the first time anyone had ever mentioned it.
Here we go, I thought. I weaken in my no smoking resolve and end up getting a kicking in the street for it. That’s the thing about Dumbarton Road; you can hardly walk down it at night without some bam trying to tap you for fags and change.
‘Look, mate,’ I snapped. ‘These are my only fucking fags and I’m fucking smoking them, all right?’
‘Alright, there’s no need to have an attitude about it,’ said the guy with the tan. He looked genuinely upset at my lack of charity.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘It’s been a hard day.’
‘Well, don’t take it out on me,’ he said huffily, and the pair of them walked off.
*for people who don’t live in Scotland; a tan is a facial scar, usually received from a knife or bottle.
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